


The Weight of it All

by caridura



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is the Best, Canon-Typical Violence, Deep Introspection?, Eventual Smut, I Don't Even Know, Masturbation, Multi, No Beta, No Outline, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow-ish burn, WINGING IT, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caridura/pseuds/caridura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the dust from the Battle of the Bastards settles and as the threat beyond the wall inches closer, a ragtag group of Westerosians and the wild leader of a wild people fleeing certain undeath, try to get through their days and prepare for what's to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

"I don't trust him," Tormund muttered over to his friend, leaning over an inch as Jon spooned a bit of his cooling stew into his mouth, "His face...something about his face is...off. His grin. He's too pretty. Prettier than you even, king crow."

"And you think I do, Tormund?" Jon glanced back over to his fire headed ally, "The Lannisters destroyed my family. They beheaded my father. From what Sansa says Jaime Lannister played no small part in father's death. I don't trust him. I need him. We need him."

Jon grimaced as the words left his mouth. He looked out to the far end the dining hall where Jaime Lannister sat, flanked by the most trusted of his army. All wore black and red and gold. One of his men leaned into his ear and whispered, and Jon imagined he gave the same sort of warning his own trusted wildling advisor was giving him now. He imagined the trust was thin on either side of the room.

He was right. 

"They all look like they want to string us up," Bronn whispered into Jaime's ear, "Everyone of them. And if they decide to, we're done for, Lannister.  This was a shit idea, a really shit idea."

"Now now, Bronn," Jaime smirked back at him, "Brienne was most welcoming."

"Aye, she was, and if you think she and her honor won't run you through with her pretty little sword at her pretty little lady's command, you're a fool," Bronn replied, taking a swig of his ale before continuing, "And she wouldn't be wrong to. Not after all you fucks have put these people through."

Jaime sighed, still smirking, but his eyes were tired as he looked over to the table at the head of the hall, where the woman in question leaned down to offer her princess her own ear.

"I just don't see why he had to come himself," Sansa murmured, "He could have sent his army and stayed behind."

"My lady, Ser Jaime is an excellent fighter, even...maimed, as he was, and an even better commander of his men. He will prove an asset in the battles to come," Brienne whispered back over to her young mistress, trying with all her impressive might to communicate whatever reassurance she could in her brilliant blue eyes. 

"I trust you, Brienne. You're one of two people in the world I trust," Sansa sighed, but she nodded reluctantly before turning back to her meal, "And I will trust you in this where I cannot trust him...but...please don't make me regret it."

"I won't, princess," Brienne swore to her then, the solemnity in her three words as sincere as those in any oath or vow she'd spoken to date. 

She wouldnt, however much it might hurt her in the end; however much betraying the man who looked over to her now, a grim smile on his lips as he raised a glass to her, would break her heart. She silently prayed that he would not give her a reason to, but some naive part of her, some hopeful part that had not yet been crushed despite all she'd seen and done and lost in the past few years; it believed him.

She raised her glass back at him in turn, her face expressionless as she sipped her wine. 

Tormund shifted in his seat. 

His face was stone and his back was straight, but he shifted in his seat just slightly. It was the only thing that betrayed his witnessing the small and silent exchange. He seethed internally. His ability to mask the burning rage in his chest that traveled up his throat was a testament to his strength. 

"Just say the word and I'll cut him down," he said to  Jon through clenched teeth, his jaw hard and his eyes bright.

"I'll do it myself if it comes to that," Jon turned to him. 

"Aye," Tormund nodded, "You would. But do let me watch when you do. Hold him down even."

Jon's eyes softened and he grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still own nothing.

Jaime jerked upright at the knock on his door. His armor was off. His sword was sitting next to it on a trunk at the foot of the small bed his modest quarters, but he had a dagger tucked at his back, his golden hand fastened, and faith enough in his ability to concuss anyone who dared threaten him. 

If there were but one or two of them. If there were more he was likely fucked.

He huffed, frowned and he stepped towards the door. 

It was late. He hadn't expected to have to entertain anyone this night, his first at Winterfell in so many years, and after hours spent discussing his motives for riding north with the region's recently coronated king; hours spent pleading his case for the sake of his own life and the lives of his men, to a young man who would welcome the end of the Lannister name. Hours spent dining in a tense display of tenous peace in the Stark family’s great hall, a family nearly gone and practically ruined by his own blood.

It was late, and five days on the road north through sleet and wind and so much snow; through a cold more biting and bitter than any in his memory...it had left him worn.

"Guest right," he whispered, and then he chuckled desperately to himself, remembering as he said the words that the young king's dear brother and the young princess' dear mother were slaughtered under guest right and at the command of his own father. 

He sighed, cracking the door open and peaking outside, and he exhaled again more deeply when sapphire blue eyes rose up to meet his emerald greens. 

Brienne stood at attention as he pulled the door open the rest of the way and grinned at her. Her squire, Podrick the resolute, stood straight as a board behind her, his eyes friendly, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Ser Jaime," Brienne stated, her jaw set firmly and her hands clasped behind her back.

"Just Jaime, wench," he corrected her gently, " I'm no longer a knight. You know this."

"Right," she nodded tersely, "My apologies..."

He cut her off, shaking his head as he peered to either side of his guests, seeing no one else in the hall.

"Keep them," he insisted, stepping back into his room, before turning to her, "Please, both of you, come in. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I wanted to make sure you were settling in," Brienne answered him, "The welcome you received upon your arrival to Winterfell could have been...warmer."

Jaime chuckled.

"Had I not already been thoroughly convinced by the climate on my journey north that winter had indeed come, my frigid reception would have done the trick," he laughed at her understatement, his green eyes shining in amusement. She gave him a small smile in return.

"It was not entirely unwarrated, ser," Brienne reminded him.

"Jaime," he corrected her again his gaze and smile faltering a little as he remembered his last visit to the northern keep. 

He had crippled a small boy, back when that child's family was whole, that act the first in a series of tragedies inflicted upon them.

"And no, it wasn't. But I wasn't executed immediately, I wasn't hauled off to a cell. I was heard," he sighed, "It could have all gone much worse than it did."

"Indeed," Brienne nodded, "And your room, it's comfortable enough?"

"It is, Brienne, thank you," he insisted quietly, meeting her stare and holding it for a brief moment before turning away, "Pod, dear boy! You look taller. What brings YOU here at this hour?"

"It's late, Jaime," Brienne answered for the boy, "It wouldn't be proper..."

"Ah. Ever the dutiful chaperone," Jaime hummed, amiably patting the boy on the shoulder with his one hand before running it through his own golden hair, a fresh weariness taking over his entire demeanor.

"I would like to think you trusted me with your honor after all this time and the hell we've been through, wench."

"I do," Brienne answered him, instantly painfully serious, her eyes conveying an honesty that reached him, "But it seems prudent to at least attempt to discourage any potentially negative impressions, at least until they get...used to you...to the idea of you. Being here."

"You're probably right," Jaime agreed, a sad smile turning the corners of his mouth upward just a bit. He breathed deeply then and heaved out a huge sigh. His stance relaxed somewhat, his sadness slipping away, "In the light of day, then, Brienne. Can we talk tomorrow in the light of day?"

"Yes, of course, Jaime," she nodded curtly, her brow furrowing slightly at the subtle pleading in his voice.

"Good," he said then, smiling casually as he moved towards the door, "Then I will beg your leave for the night. I'm settling in well...considering, but I'm tired from the road and the weather. My miniscule bed is looking more welcoming by the second, my friend."

"Of course," Brienne murmured, flushing a little at his open and verbal acknowledgement of their friendship; such a seemingly minor thing, but one that meant the whole world to her in that moment. She turned on her heel and towards the door after him, Podrick right behind her, "Sleep well."

"I intend to," he assured her, pausing for a moment to clear his throat as the warrior woman and her young squire stepped out into the hall, "And,  Brienne. Thank you."

"Of course, Jaime," she nodded and paused, collecting herself before continuing, "And...Jaime. You do, in fact, have at least one friend here. In me. Maybe even two," she said, a quiet smile in her eyes that didn't quite reach her mouth as she glanced over at Podrick.

Jaime beamed at her. 

"It's more than I deserve, wench" he laughed, closing the door on the two of them before either could argue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never own anything.

Sansa hadn’t come to the great hall to break her fast the following morning. Brienne noticed as soon she stepped into the room, and Jon summoned her over to where he ate. Tormund was at his side discussing some wilding matter with two of his wildling fighters in urgent whispers. The big bearded man hardly spared her a glance, so she knew the issue must have been of some importance.

Tormund rarely missed a chance to gawk at her. 

Jon asked the lady knight if she knew what had kept his sister from joining them and Brienne could not answer him, but she assured him that she would find out. 

That led her to her lady's door a few minutes later and the sound of smashing glass saw her barrelling through it the next second, Oathkeeper in hand and at the ready. 

She wasn't quite prepared for the sight of the younger woman sitting in her nightgown on the floor in front of her vanity, shards of shattered mirror scattered before her, her hands bleeding from the beating she'd given their source. 

She was weeping. Her red wet eyes rose up to meet Brienne's worried ones and a small cry escaped her. 

"Brienne..." she whimpered before succumbing to violent sobs. 

"Sansa?" Brienne muttered, thinking to shut the door behind her before she rushed to the girl's side. A shy hand reached for Sansa's delicate arm, and tenderly gripped her elbow, "Sansa, what's happened? You're bleeding."

"I want to die," Sansa cried urgently as she grasped at the sleeves of Brienne's gambeson, burying her face in the crook of the larger woman's shoulder as she continued to sob. 

Brienne embraced her, gingerly. 

"Please don't say that, my lady," Brienne murmured back at her, "You've survived so much."

"I cant..." Sansa struggled to form the words, shaking her head frantically, "I won't survive this."

"Tell me," Brienne insisted as she ran her hand in small circles over the girl's back, trying to calm her, but her request seemed to elicit another wave of awful pained sobbing. 

She let Sansa cry.

In the time that she'd know the girl, she hadn't once seen her cry, so Brienne figured she was due, however much the present display unnerved her...worried her. 

Minutes passed, how many Brienne didn't know, but in that time Sansa's body and her brain started calming themselves. 

"Sansa?" Brienne whispered, when she thought she might have an opening to question again, to try and make sense out of what was happening, "Should I summon your brother?"

Sansa shook her head pulling away from Brienne and meeting her eyes. 

"I..." she started before a pained expression claimed her face and fresh tears fell from her eyes. She inhaled deeply then before continuing, "He...Ramsay. He..."

She paused again, wrenching her eyes shut.

"I'm with child."

Brienne's eyes widened and a little gasp escaped her lips. Yes. This would inspire such a display. This could break the poor girl. 

Sansa started sobbing again and Brienne pulled her back into her strong arms. 

"Oh Sansa...shhh..." Brienne murmured, petting the girl's hair, "It's okay. It will be okay."

"No," Sansa shook her head into Brienne's shoulder, "No, I can't have his child. Please, Brienne, I cant."

"Shhhhh shh shh shh..." Brienne whispered, "We can go see the maester. We can go right now. There are ways to..."

"I did already," Sansa interrupted her, lifting her head up again, "I've been twice now in secret and I'm still wretching every morning. It's been too long. It's...I can't get rid of it."

"Seven hells," Brienne muttered, scowling...forgetting herself.

Sansa breathed out a small laugh at that followed by another round of quiet sobs.

"I'm so sorry, princess," Brienne quickly apologized, her face reddening and embarrassed, "I wasn't thinking."

"No, it's alright," Sansa said then, wiping her tears with one hand and taking Brienne's into her other, "I've just...I've never heard you curse before."

Brienne smiled at her awkwardly before allowing herself a small chuckle. Sansa joined her in it, through her tears.

"It seemed the appropriate time," Brienne whispered, her free hand cradling the younger woman's face, "I'm so sorry, Sansa. No one will make you love this child. No one will make you keep it. There are...options."

Sansa face crumbled then and she wept, but she nodded. 

"I just..." Sansa started ripping her eyes away from Brienne's before she continued, shame clouding her tortured features, "Jon wouldn't let me kill it...not after it's born. He sent the red woman away for killing a child. He's...he's so good."

"He wouldn't, my lady. He is good, and he wouldn't, but you would never have to know it...never have to see it," Brienne told her, outwardly unphased at the things the younger woman had entertained in regards to her pregancy. 

Brienne knew what Bolton had put her through, and she knew it wasn't her place to judge.

"But what if..." Sansa began, frowning deeply then, "What if I come to care for it? What then...? What if, what...after all the time spent...caring for it...I come to love it? What if I love it and it looks like him? What if I love it and it IS like him?"

Brienne cupped both hands on either side of Sansa's face then and she held her gaze.

"Ramsay Bolton was an evil man, raised by an evil man, Sansa," Brienne told her firmly, "He never knew love. Without love troubled souls turn black. If you love this child, it won't be like him. If you love it even an ounce, it won't be like him, because you are also good," Brienne said smiling at the girl then. 

"You are a good person raised and loved by such good people and it will be as much of you as it is of him. More even...because he's gone. He's dead. He won't get to corrupt this child, as much as he would have loved to."

Sansa nodded. Another tear ran down her cheek, wetting Brienne's palm.

"And that is a sweet revenge. The child won't get his name. The child won't get his influence. Those things died with him."

Sansa nodded again, resolutely, though she knew not what she would do. She missed her mother.

"I just..." she began, sighing, "The dogs were enough revenge for me."

Brienne laughed quietly, pulling her hands back to her own body, and Sansa smiled at her. 

"Nothing has to be decided today, my lady," Brienne assured her, "And no one will force anything on you. Not love, not motherhood...not as long as I live, you have my word."

"Al...alright..." Sansa stuttered, moved to the point of tears again, but she made herself stand, "I should tell Jon."

"It can wait, there's no need to..." Brienne started, but Sansa cut her off, raising one hand and wiping tears from her eyes with the back of the other.

"No, I really must," Sansa said then, "You are one person in the world I trust, Brienne, and he is the other. I can't have his support if he doesn't know what's happening. I need that."

"Very well, my lady. As you wish," Brienne stood up then too, "Your hands."

"I will tend to them. And clean this all up," Sansa told her, forcing a smile, "If you could please just let him know that I need to speak with him."

"Of course, my lady," Brienne answered her as she quickly moved towards the door.

"Brienne," Sansa called out before Brienne could shut the door behind her.

"Princess?" she answered.

"Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.

Tormund found her in the stables an hour later, checking the left forefoot of her impressive mare. Her urgency when she stepped back into the great hall after having seen to Jon Snow's little waif of a sister; the insistent whispers as she demanded his attention, and Jon's quickness to rise and follow her away from his meal and his men...it was enough to distract him from his conversation with Gorrum and Hahl. 

He didn't have to wonder if something was wrong. He could tell by the twitch in her jaw and the particular look of worry in her eyes when she went to Jon. He hadn't gotten to know the woman before him as well as he would have liked to. He'd hardly said two words directly to her, nor her to him since that fateful day some weeks ago when she rode through the gates of castle black, a revelation to him.

But he studied her. 

He watched her. 

He listened to her.

The open mouthed and hungry stares that he truthfully couldn't help when she'd first graced the band of merry fucks he was quickly coming to think of as family with her formidable presence...those were mostly gone these days. They'd been parted shortly after they first met, Brienne sent to some fucking southron place or another to try and secure more fighters for their cause, and Tormund stayed by Jon's side until the gates to his childhood home were beaten down and the place was taken back from the clutches of the beast that was the Bolton bastard. 

Brienne came back from that venture harder than she'd left, more guarded, and he'd noticed. He checked his stares these days. He reigned in his near violent and visceral desire and appreciation for her. Tormund knew women well enough. If he pushed her too hard in this state, he could push her away. He couldn't have that.

But he studied her. 

He watched her. 

He listened to her.

Tormund had asked her squire about their journey one day, when his curiosity got the better of him. 

The boy told him the shift in her demeanor from dour to...well...more dour, was likely due to the fact that she had failed in her attempt to bring help. Upon returning to Winterfell the two of them rode past mountains of bodies of wildlings and other allied men. She no doubt wondered how many of them would have been spared had she succeeded. 

"She shouldn't bloody take that on," Tormund muttered to the boy then, frowning.

"It's how she is," Podrick shrugged.

The boy proceeded to tell him, however, that her mood was also maybe due in part to their having run into a friend unexpectedly; a man, a Lannister, perpetually fighting on the wrong side of things...and that they'd left him there, on the wrong side of things. Then Podrick realized that he should stop talking. Tormund didn't push him for more information. He figured the rest, if there was anything else to know, would come to him.  
   
And it did. 

In the shape of that Lannister man himself, all golden haired and bright green eyed and dashing smiles and wit. 

Tormund wanted to fucking gut him on sight. 

The softness that overcame Brienne's face when she first looked upon his, however, stopped said gutting. It was obvious to Tormund that she cared for this man; that he was a dear friend to her, if not more, so Tormund let him live that day and into this one, cursing his luck that the one grown man in all of the southron lands who appreciated the magnificence that was Brienne of Tarth enough to at least inspire warmth from her, was this devilishly handsome prick of a lordly southron fellow. 

But now SOMETHING was wrong, not even one full day after Lannister rode past Winterfell's gate, and it might very well be entirely unrelated...Tormund strongly suspected that it was, but a selfish part of him joyously wondered if he'd get to gut the fucker after all.

The sound of Brienne's throat clearing ripped him from his thoughts. 

"Lady Brienne..." Tormund spat out, jumping a little at her acknowledgement of him.

"Just...Brienne..." she corrected him quietly, before clearing her throat again and continuing, "Brienne is sufficient, ser. I'm hardly a lady."

Tormund frowned a little that, but he nodded. 

"Just Tormund then...Brienne..." he said her name as if he was tasting it, his tongue wetting his lips. 

If Brienne noticed, she made no show of it. 

But she had noticed. 

Of course she had. 

"I'm no ser," Tormund finished, to which she nodded. 

They stood across from each other awkwardly and in silence for a few moments, Tormund wondering if anyone had every told her that her eyes were the most incredible shade of deep blue; Brienne wondering if he'd come to the stables just to stare at her. He hadn't gotten a good and full on stare at her in some time. Maybe he imagined he was due. 

"Um...Tormund, is there so...?" she started asking him, breaking the silence. 

"I just..." Tormund began, cursing himself inwardly. Why the hell had he come here again? "Right, I thought I might..."

"Yes...?" Brienne encouraged him, however cooly. She didn't have the day to waste on him getting to his point. 

"Your squire!" Tormund nearly shouted then as he recalled having a perfectly good reason to talk to her, one he had thought up just a few days prior and that he'd been meaning to bring up when he caught her...alone...in daylight...in public.

"Podrick?" she asked in reply, her brow furrowing severely, "Has he done something...? Is he alright?!"

Tormund raised his palms before her at the panic in her last few words. He had alarmed her. That wasn't what he wanted. He sighed. He was usually better at this...at talking.

"The lads fine, woman," Tormund insisted, "I just...I noticed that you train with him. In the morning, and before you sup. I've watched you...with him."

Brienne tilted her head a little, her brow still wrinkled together, but the fear that had filled her eyes seconds ago made way for no small amount of confusion. 

"Right," Tormund continued, "You're teaching him your fancy southron way of swinging fancy swords, and...well, he's improving everyday, but...well, I wondered if you wouldn't mind my working with him some?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Brienne queried, perplexed as to what the man before her was getting at.

"Well...it's just, he's a good boy. Polite...meek-mannered even, but there's power in him. I can see it," Tormund explained then, "I just wonder if all the rules and steps and fucking propriety that comes with learning that fancy southron fighting isn't stifling him a bit. It might do him some good to loosen up."

"You want to teach my squire to fight as you do?" Brienne restated "As a wildling fights?"

"Aye," the bearded man in front of her nodded, crossing his arms at his chest, and jutting his chin out proudly.

Brienne swallowed deeply at his action, unsure why exactly she felt threatened by it, but straightening her back and standing tall nonetheless. Her frown intensified as she studied him before her, but then it softened, just slightly, and Tormund's own stance relaxed a bit in turn. 

She thought of Pod, of how he'd saved her life and Tyrion Lannister's before her. She thought of how sweet he was and of how he had to survive. It was an oath she'd sworn to no one but herself, but she carried it close to heart nonetheless.

"Very well," Brienne nodded after a moment, swallowing again, "You can work with him at dusk. You will teach him to fight as you do. Nothing else."

Her tone invited no argument. 

She'd heard of Tormund's tall tales of bedding bears from the others, she'd watched him drink absurd amounts of ale and some nauseatingly sour smelling wilding concoction, that seemed to inebriate even the strongest men in a way she had never seen. She was sure he was a womanizer, and given the way he acted towards her when she frist arrived at Castle Black, she suspected he could be cruel. She suspected that the only reason he hadn't readily come out and acosted her with the jokes and japes she'd heard all her life was her position as Sansa's sworn sword.

But the man could fight. She had watched him spar with one of his fellow wildling warriors just a few days ago, from a distance. She would be lying if she said she wasn't taken aback at the sight lf him. He was ferocity embodied. Podrick could learn a lot from him...about fighting. 

"Aye," Tormund nodded in agreement then, his voice pulling her eyes from where they had fixated on his beard to meet his own, "You won't regret it. Will be good to have a young one to train again. I miss teaching m'own."

"Your own?" Brienne asked then quickly, "You have children?"

"Had. I think," Tormund nodded, a heavy sadness clouding his features as he spoke, "They're likely gone now. Left them with my good sister when I went to join Mance."

"Your good sister? You have a wife then?" Brienne pressed, equal parts disbelief and compassion for him immediately spread across her features, despite herself, and despite everything she'd thought of him to this point.

"Had," Tormund corrected her again, "I'm sure she's gone. Lost her to a sickness just days after my littest earned her name."

"I...I'm sorry. I had no idea," Brienne stuttered. 

"You wouldn'tve," Tormund started, "Jon Snow knows, but I mostly try not to think of them, much less talk of them. Hurts when I do...except..."

He paused, thinking better of continuing with what he was about to confess to her. 

He stopped himself before he told her that when he looked upon her he was reminded of the wife he'd lost eleven years prior; a big, beautiful woman too fierce to be stolen, but one who had chosen to bind herself to him of her own accord, a greater prize in his opinion. 

He stopped himself before he told her that when he looked upon her he was reminded of his daughters; his axe-wielding warrior girl children, as inherently sweet when they thought no one was looking, as they were strong, beating down boys and scowling every chance they got. 

He stopped himself before he told Brienne that when he looked to her and he was made to think of the girls and the woman he'd loved, it was the only time it didn't hurt. She had given him some hope for his daughters where he'd scarce allowed any before; hope that they might still be alive and fighting. 

Brienne stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his thought, but he shook his head and grinned, his eyes no longer tormented, but rather full of sincere endearment towards her and good humor.

"I should check in with my men before they head back to camp," Tormund told her then, slapping his hands together, "These tribes have a lot of them hated each other for centuries. The cunts will tear it all down if we can't figure up a way to keep the peace." 

"Right," Brienne nodded dumbly in agreement, wishing for whatever reason entirely beyond her grasp at the moment that he would finish his thought, but instead he turned his back to her and he made his way towards the stable doors. 

He stopped in his tracks just before reaching them, however. Brienne's eyes shot up from the ground where they had followed his feet and they met his. Her look questioned him. His smiled at her. 

"Oh," Tormund started, remembering the actual reason he had sought her out, "Is everything alright...with the sister?"

"Oh," Brienne muttered, frowning then, but not at him, he noted.

"It will be," she told him, her frown fading and one corner of her mouth curving upwards.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own not one meager thing.

Brienne had expected to see Jaime up and moving about the grounds by now. It was nearly mid-day, and as such she made her way towards his quarters. She ran into Bronn in the hallway as she neared the room.

"Ser Bronn," she nodded cordially as she greeted him.

"He's in a fucked, sour mood, girl," Bronn told her, clearly annoyed, "But he just sent me to hunt you down though, so maybe you can cheer him up. I'm done trying."

He continued past her without another word. Whatever sorry state he'd found Jaime in had infected him for the time being, so she was happy to let him go. She stepped towards Jaime's door and just as she made to knock he pulled it open, startling her. Her hand instinctively reach for the pommel of her sword before she could catch herself.

"Really, wench?" Jaime smirked at her slyly and she glared at him in turn, which he ignored, motioning for her to step inside.

Within the room a young boy was working to breathe life into the fire that had died overnight and Jaime, inspired by the youth's efforts, tried to breathe life into his one hand, flexing and clenching his fingers together to encourage bloodflow.

"I will never get used to this," he muttered, "The cold."

"It's oppressive," Brienne agreed, having herself mostly grown accustomed to it, at least from within the warm walls of the castle, but her empathy for him dicating that she keep as much to herself.

"That's the perfect word for it, you eloquent beast!" Jaime chuckled loudly, "It's hateful and awful and...oppressive. And while we're on the topic of hateful, awful, oppresive things, I received a letter from my dear sister this morning."

Brienne's mouth shot opened but no sound came out. Her eyes grew wide and in a split second the humor that had coated his face and his tone as he spoke to her was gone and he was all dread.

They hadn't yet talked about what had happened. She wondered if his need to accounted for some of the desire that he expressed to speak with her alone the night before.

She had heard.

About the fire.

She'd heard about the countless lives lost, one of those the life of Jaime's youngest child; his last child. She had heard rumors and whispers and gossip on the road from Riverrun, and a bit of somewhat reliable sounding news at an inn she and Podrick stopped at on their way back to Sansa. They'd stopped to try and warm their bones, winter having hit the north hard with the fall of Bolton's army. They hardly had time to warm the tips of their fingers before she hurried them out and back on their way. She prayed for Tommen and Margaery as they rode through thick snow.

She'd wanted to get a raven out to Jaime as soon as she could, but when she arrived at Winterfell and reached the maester, she found she didn't know what she could say, or should say to him, that might help in anyway.

A week later, standing across from him, she was in much the same state.

"Jaime, I..." she started, but no more words would come.

"I'm a fool!" he spat out, his golden hand slamming down on a wooden table, causing the warrior woman and the young boy who'd finally succeeded at his task to both jerk. His eyes brimmed with hot tears as he spoke, and he boy quickly stepped towards the door, knowing well enough to leave them.

"I've been such a fool!" Jaime roared, flipping the table over.

Brienne didn't hesitate. She walked over to him and she took him in her arms. He fought her for just a second, before all the fight left his body and it sagged.

He didn't cry.

He wouldn't let his tears fall, and it was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

"I loved her," he whispered, broken.

"I know you did," Brienne murmured in reply.

She held him for a full minute before he sighed, and she let him go as soon as he did. She was on guard. She didn't think that he would hurt her. She didn't entertain that thought for an instant, but hurting himself or destroying the room around them were both within the realm of possibility. If she could help to avoid either outcome she would.

He moved away from her and towards his bed, where he sat, slumped really, sighing again.

"I had to leave, or I would have killed her," he confessed quietly.

Brienne nodded as she went to her knees before him and taking his hand in one of hers. The fire was starting to warm the room at last. He turned his head towards the pillow of his bed where the letter from Cersei sat.

Brienne reached for it, moving to sit on the bed next to him, and she read:

-Jaime,

I'm disappointed in you, beloved.

Expect the full force of my armies.

Expect to be taken alive and brought back to me.

As much as my heart will break when they sever your head, expect my smile to be the last thing you see.

There is nothing else to say.

-Cersei

"Expect the full force of her armies...she has no armies. She has an abomination and it's creator at her side. She has a thousand men in her queensguard and in the city watch combined, all shielding her and slaughtering a city full of people who hate her. She's mad, Brienne," Jamie muttered, shaking his head, "The dragon queen is coming from the east, she will land any day now. The Martells are pledged to her, the Tyrells are pledged to her, the Greyjoys are pledged to her, my BROTHER is pledged to her. She brings the whole of the Dothraki army, the whole of her Unsullied warriors, and three fucking dragons. The Baratheons are gone with Stannis. The Vale is here, all of the north is hear, the fucking wildlings even...all backing the bastard king."

"And you are...now," Brienne added, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"I am," Jaime sighed, nodding, frowing deeply.

"Why, Jaime?" Brienne asked him, very gently.

"I had to leave, or I would have killed her," he explained, his eyes fixed on the floor, "I wanted to; to strangle her and watch the life drain from her eyes. For all she's done. For my children.

His voice shook at with those last three words.

"But I'm a one handed craven and as much as I hate her now, I have always and I will always love her. So instead I took the one real army she did have," he seethed, collecting himself, "Three thousand men followed me here. I should have taken them home, to their families, but it was too close. She would have called them back. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let her have them. We needed a cause."

"And so you came here?" Brienne pressed.

"The men at the wall have been pleading for aid for months now," Jaime told her, glancing over at her, "Years even. First Mormont, then your bastard boy king, and now some fellow named Edd, who's language is the most colorful yet."

"I never cared...I was too far up her cunt," he continued, Brienne wincing at his harsh words, "Once I managed to claw my way out, however, I saw that there was a chance here. For redemption, even a little."

He paused, his eyes turning back to the floor and his one hand gripping at his pant leg nervously.

"And you are here," he whispered, "You are the one true friend I have left in this world, wench. And you are the only person I trust."

She gave him a small smile.

"And I will do what I can to help you," she whispered to him.

Jaime ran his hand over his face, seemingly calm now, and Brienne released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Is it true then? White walkers?" he asked her, straightening his back and turning to stare out his window.

"I've never seen them," Brienne told him, honestly, "But you and I both know it's true."

"Yes," he nodded, his eyes narrowing for a second before he shot to his feet, pulling off his tunic, "I need a bath. If you could let whoever needs to know, know. And then I will find your king and see how best to prepare my men."

Brienne nodded, rising to her own feet and moving towards the door. He was all business now and she wouldn't dally. He needed to get out of this room and she would see to it that he did, and quickly.

"Wench," Jamie stopped her and she turned to him quickly, "Please, take that letter. Show your lady and your king, and then burn it for me. I cannot."

She said nothing.

She stepped towards the bed, crumpled the letter in her strong right hand, and she left.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is maybe my fave chapter yet. 
> 
> I still own nothing.

That evening found Brienne standing just outside the practice yard, in a darkened corner and out of sight, watching as her young squire's body was hurled at least six feet by the man who'd asked to take part in his tutelage that morning. 

She'd wanted to find Pod and let him know about the change in their routine herself, but by the time she felt confident and comfortable enough in Jon and Jaime's forced civility towards each other, as they discussed the situation in the north and beyond the wall in explicit detail, it was near dusk. 

The wildling had already fetched the boy and started their training. 

So she watched them, unseen and waiting for any sign of trouble. 

Tormund ran at the boy, covering the two yards between them in a second flat, the battle axe in his right hand, real and sharp, cutting through the air and the edge of its blade aimed right between the boy's eyes. The small chunk of bread Brienne had been absent-mindedly nibbling on dropped to the ground. Her whole being tensed.

The axe stopped a half an inch from the tip of Pod's nose. Podrick's eyes grew panicked and wide for the sixth time in the last half hour, but when he realized, for the sixth time in the last half hour and as the wildling and his axe hovered over him, that he wasn't going to die, he let out a deep loud laugh. It was the first he'd allowed himself in longer than he could remember. 

Brienne's heart tightened in her chest at the sound. 

She'd never heard him laugh before. 

"That's a lad!" Tormund chuckled back to him, his axe falling to his side and his free hand grabbing the boy by his collar, hoisting him to his feet, "There's joy in fighting! There's joy in killing evil men! You must celebrate each blow and each cut and each kill, and if you die in the process then you've died trying to kill an evil man, and that is a good way to end this shit of a life we've been given, ye' hear me?"

"Yes ser," Podrick nodded, smiling widely.

"Tormund," his instructor corrected him quickly.

"Oh, right...yes, Tormund," Podrick appeased, flushed, his hands dusting the straw, dirt and snow from his backside.

Brienne bent down slowly to scoop up her bread, her eyes never leaving them. 

"Right then, take the axe," Tormund insisted then, handing the weapon over to the boy before stepping away, "Swing it around a bit. Get a feel for it. Learn it's weight and the way your body wants to be with it. Have you been with a woman yet, boy?"

"Um..." Podrick blushed a deep red, "Yes. There was one time...with...um, a few...of them? Well, three of them."

Tormund grinned wickedly and from her corner Brienne gawked at her squire. 

"Three of them?!" Tormund boomed, laughing, "Oh, my dear boy, do tell."

"Well, my former master, he...secured them for me," Podrick stuttered, "in thanks...for helping him. But they wouldn't accept the gold he left them with when it was all...over."

Brienne's eyes softened, as disturbed as she was by all she was learning about her young charge.

"Ah, they liked you then, haha!" Tormund chortled again, before growing just a touch more serious, "That's good. Tells me you were kind to them, if nothing else. But a whore is a smart and resourceful woman. You didn't pay because you did something very right, boy. You should treat every weapon you meet like a woman you want to bed, as a precious, sacred, fearsome thing. You learn what you can do to make her sing and you're patient with her. Every weapon is different, every one will require something different of you." 

Brienne gulped and she blushed a little, and when she realized it she wanted to punch herself in the face.

"Right," Podrick nodded standing up straighter, a little less shy after his confession, and listening...soaking up every word. 

Something seemed to click in his mind. 

Tormund noticed, and Brienne did too. 

Tormund grinned, and Brienne did too, despite herself. 

"Go on then," Tormund demanded, stepping back a little further to give the boy room to move, "Get a feel for her."

Podrick did, a little hesitantly at first, tossing the axe between his hands before gripping it with both, swinging it around, up over his head, out in front of him. He smiled at the sound of the blade swiping through the air. 

Brienne could see a lot of the training she'd done with him in his stance, in his lunge, in the control in his wrists and the hardness in his shoulders, but there was something in his eyes that was entirely new to her. 

Tormund was right, loathe as she was to admit it, even to herself. There was some, as of yet, mostly unrealized power in the boy. It might very well be the thing that kept him alive in the days to come, and the wildling would be the one to nurture it in him.

After about five minutes Tormund stepped back towards him. Podrick's movements were still a little awkward, but no one watching would guess that it was the first time he'd weilded a battle axe. 

"Now," Tormund began, and Podrick lowered the axe, listening intently, "Now we kill. Tell me about a man you want to kill."

"Uh...I..." Podrick muttered. 

"C'mon now, boy, you've seen what, seventeen, eighteen years?" Tormund asked him, slapping his shoulder. 

"Sixteen, ser...um...Tormund," Podrick informed him. 

"Ah, you're large! That's good. Well, you've had plenty of time to meet a man you've wanted to kill," Tormund pressed. 

"Well...I...never met Ramsay Bolton," Podrick told him then, "But I would I have killed him had I been given the chance...but, Lady Sansa did a better job of it than I could have."

"Aye, she did," Tormund smirked, "Made her brother pale a bit. Like I said.. they're fearsome."

Podrick smiled.  

"Some man living though," Tormund pushed on, "Give me the name of a living man you want to make dead."

"Well..." Podrick began, glancing around him nervously before continuing, "I've never met them either. Don't know their names, but I can picture them."

"Aye," Tormund encouraged him, "Tell me."

"Well...they hurt Lady Brienne," Podrick said then, and Tormund's face was hard in an instant.

"Like I said, I don't know them, but she's told me story or two...of men who tormented her. Men who made a bet to take her...um...virtue? They toyed with her. I can't understand it. I guess because she's odd, for a highborn lady, but she good. She's kind and honorable. She became a joke to them and, well...they really hurt her. No one has ever looked out for me like her...maybe just my former master. It's funny, he was odd too. A dwarf, mocked all his life, but he was kind to me."

A tear rolled down Brienne's cheek.

She didn't even notice, too focused on the pair before her.

She was not meant to hear any of that, and she knew she should have walked away, but she couldn't move her feet.

Podrick paused then, wondering if he'd said too much, but feeling lighter for it.

There was murder in Tormund's eyes and a violent pink flush bleeding into the skin of his whole face.

"Yes. Let's kill them," Tormund growled out through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, "Any man who would treat THAT woman as anything other than a goddess made flesh; as if she wasn't..."

Tormund stopped himself, too enraged. 

Brienne frowned, suddenly tremendously confused.

"That man dies," he finished.

Podrick looked up at Tormund, perplexed for just a moment before his mouth broke out into a wide smile. 

"When you look to me, I want you to picture any of those idiot fucks and I want you to try to kill me. Ye' hear me, lad?" Tormund ordered then, serious. 

"Yes ser...I mean, Tormund," Podrick nodded before postioning himself to strike. 

"C'mon then, we don't have long before it's dark," Tormund added, smiling at Podrick's resolve. 

Brienne managed to find her feet right as Podrick lunged at the bearded wilding and she moved away from them. She was heartened at the things she'd heard and witnessed in the last hour, however confused, but she was also incredibly and painfully overwhelmed by it all, compounded with the day she'd had. 

The discovery of Sansa's pregnancy. 

Jaime's...well; Jaime. 

She walked towards the great hall where dinner would soon be served, and where she hoped she might ask Sansa's leave to skip it. She would sleep as well as she ever did this night, and she thought the sooner that happened, the better. 

Tormund glanced over his shoulder to where she had stood as he dodged a swing of Podrick's axe. He'd seen her. He'd felt her first...smelled her in the air, and he could tell that had left them. 

She wouldn't have been prepared for any of that.

The blade of the axe grazing his beard refocused his attention on his task at hand. Podrick nearly got him there.

"YES, boy!" Tormund roared at him, "That's it! Kill the living shit outta me!"

Podrick laughed again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A woman owns nothing.

The clouds in the sky were a deep slate gray, and the night grew dark as the girl made her way through the gates, her body hugging the walls and keeping to the shadows. She'd seen the banners hanging from the outside, and she saw them inside the keep; white and a gray direwolf's head...the symbol of her blood; of her father, and his fathers before him. 

But she knew better than to place too much trust in symbols and sigils. She would keep hidden until she saw both of their faces...the faces of her blood; of her brother and her sister, who were rumored to rule the north now, a bastard king, and the lady of the land. 

She'd passed knights of the Vale and soldiers from most of the northern houses lodged at nearby inns, or settled into camps on her way to the castle. She'd passed a mass of people who appeared to be wildlings, though she'd never seen wildlings, she'd heard a lot about them on her way. It was hard to believe the tales, but then she saw them with her own eyes. Their camp was built closer to the forest and it was quite a bit livelier than the others, she noted. 

She'd passed far too many Lannister men at arms on her way to Winterfell, and she saw far too many inside her childhood home's gates to feel at all at ease. 

She looked to the great hall. Most of the commotion within the keep was centered there, not surpising, given the hour. She could here music, though the instruments played were none she'd ever heard before. She knew people were eating and drinking. It sounded like there was peace withing the hall, and laughter, but how could there be peace when Lannister men walked freely through the the grounds? 

Arya very nearly turned around. She had no idea what the truth was, but she didn't know if she could stomach it. What if Sansa had betrayed Jon? The people said they both lived and they both ruled; she'd heard it in whispers and in jovial notherner chatter on her way back home, but if that were in fact the case, why would there be Lannister men roaming freely through the grounds?

Maybe they were both dead and she'd just missed the update. 

Maybe that cunt witch Cersei had taken Winterfell. 

Whatever the truth, she didn't think that she could stomach it. It would be more sickening to her than feeding an evil man the flesh of his sons. 

That didn't phase her. 

This could kill her. 

Arya was about to turn around. She was about to become no one; really and truly, when she saw a flash of red hair. She could practically hear her heart pounding in her chest. 

Sansa had stepped from the great hall, and she was pulling her furs tighter around her body to better shield herself from the icy cold. She took in a deep breath and then exhaled, a thick plume of steam rolling out of her chest and into the world. 

An exceptionally tall person followed her out into the night, and Arya squinted to make out their features. 

It was the woman. 

The woman who had bested the hound. 

The woman who carried a lion headed sword around her waist, but who's kind eyes Arya had really wanted to trust for a moment in time, so long ago.

One other figure joined them.

He was cloaked in black.

"JON!!!" Arya screamed then, breaking into a run towards them. 

The woman quickly pulled Sansa behind her and moved to draw her sword, but before she even realized what was happening, Sansa stepped around her and she ran towards the threat. 

Jon Snow did too, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around the small girl's waist when he reached her. He sobbed openly. 

Sansa started to cry as well, as she took Arya's weeping face into her hands and kissed her forehead repeatedly. 

Brienne's hand fell to her side away from her sword. Her breathing faltered. She pulled her hand up to her head to run her fingers through her hair before she pinched them at the bridge of her nose, rubbing her eyes to try and stop the tears. 

Arya was home. 

Brienne watched them until it felt like an intrusion. She watched them until someone stepped out of the hall behind her. She turned and faced Podrick and her tears were flowing freely then, as much as she tried to wipe them away. 

Podrick took in the scene before him before looking over to her. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in shock. Brienne let a small sob of her own escape her lips. 

"Pod..." she started before she dropped her eyes to the ground, suddenly ashamed at her raw display of emotion, "Podrick, please...can you...?

"Yes...of course," Podrick answered her unasked question. 

Brienne stormed away upon hearing the first word of his reply. She and Sansa had every intention of heading to their rooms when they stepped out into the cold. Neither woman was hungry and both were seemingly exhausted after their day, so when Brienne pled her lady her leave, Sansa decided that she would retire early as well. 

Jon was seeing them off, bidding them good sleep, and taking a moment alone with the two of them to plead an audience in the morning to discuss Sansa's...situation. 

But Sansa's plans for the evening had just changed.

Their plans for the morning had just changed. 

Podrick would let them know when they finally turned back in his direction that Brienne had continued on to bed.

He would wait as long as it took. 

As long as they needed.

The door behind him opened again and Tormund stumbled out a second later, a turkey leg in one hand and a massive mug of ale in the other. He took a big swig before hollering a reply back into the hall,  in a language Podrick didn't know and at some muffled thing some wildling had yelled at him first. Ale dribbled down his beard and he laughed heartily, before he realized that there was quite a bit of drama in play out side. 

He quieted himself.

Jon snow was on his knees before a pretty little thing, and he was crying, his face pressed to her belly. The girl's fingers worked their way through his black mane as she looked up at the Lady Sansa. 

"Look at you," Sansa smiled through her tears as she spoke to the girl, "You're a woman grown."

The girl laughed, dropping her eyes shyly. 

"Wait, what's happened?" he leaned over and mumbled into Podrick's ear. 

Podrick grinned back at him as he whispered. 

"Their sister has returned. Arya...she's home."

"Oh," Tormund murmured in reply, his eyes scanning the area around them. 

He'd seen Brienne leave the hall with Sansa moments ago. He'd wanted to catch her before she retired, to let her know that his first training session with Podrick had gone well. 

He knew she had watched them, but he didn't know if he wanted her to know that he knew, lest she be embarrassed at all he'd learned about her. She might embarrass more easily than she should, thanks in great part to the cruel actions of a gaggle of stupid southron twats. He realized as much now.

He looked back over to the trio of wolf children, still clasped in each other's embrace, still crying, before he glanced back over at Podrick. 

"Yer lady? I wanted a word with her," Tormund told him. 

"Oh, yes, she was here," Podrick nodded over at him earnestly, "She's gone up to bed. She was...a bit...overcome...at what was happening."

The boy gestured back to the Stark children, who's sniffles were quieting down and who were prying themselves away from each other slowly. 

"Upset?" Tormund frowned.

"Well...I don't know, actually," Podrick answered him glancing over at Arya, "It's a long story. She was crying. I don't know that she was upset, but she was...crying."

Tormund's scowl deepened and he was about to step away, to go find her, before he heard the shuffling of feet on snow stepping towards them. He turned to meet his friend's gray eyes. 

"Snow," Tormund grinned at him, his own hazel colored eyes shining wickedly, "Yer weeping like a little girl."

Jon laughed then, a sincere, warm laugh, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

"You're an ass," he told his friend. 

Sansa smirked at both of them, and then back at Arya, squeezing her sister's hand. 

"Tormund. Podrick," Sansa began, her voice quiet, but overjoyed, "This is our sister. My little sister, Lady Arya Stark."

"It's...just," Arya muttered out a reluctant correction, "Arya. Just Arya."

Jon and Sansa both beamed at her. She'd changed so much, but she was still their bold little Arya. 

"Right," Sansa nodded at her, "Arya, this is Tormund Giantsbane. He's the leader of the wilding peop..."

"I wouldn't go that far, m'lady," Tormund insisted, "My people bend the knee to no one, they just...listen to me."

"He one of my most trusted friends," Jon told the young girl then, and she smiled over to Tormund.

Her eyes were gray like her brother's, but they were sharper. They scanned over him, very critically. There was a hardness in her, a viciousness, that neither of her siblings possessed, and Sansa had fed her husband to his own dogs. There was a sweetness in Jon and Sansa that had been stripped away from this girl, and that was maybe lost to her forever. 

Tormund liked her already. 

And they needed her. 

"And this is Podrick P..." Sansa started, catching herself.

"This is Podrick. He's Lady Brienne's squire. And Brienne...where did she go?" Sansa frowned then, looking around them for any sign of her protector. 

"My lady, she asked me to inform you that she continued on to her quarters. She thought it best not to intrude on your reunion with your sister...and, well she's in need of a rest," Podrick told her politely after giving Arya a quick bow.

"Oh, what a shame," Sansa murmured, "Well, I will introduce you tomorrow, Arya.  Brienne, you will like her. She is my sworn sword. Yours too, I imagine. She made an oath...to...mother."

The pain that etched it's way throught Sansa's features was mirrored in her sister's face at the mention of their mother. 

"I...well, I've met her," Arya told her sister, looking back to Podrick, "And you, Podrick, is it?"

"Yes, my lady," Podrick nodded, countering her hard stare with a soft smile, "And yes, we've met."

"Oh, right," Sansa blanched, "I forgot."

"Tell me your surname, Podrick?" Arya asked him then, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. 

"Arya," Jon muttered, tense all of a sudden. 

"It is Payne, my lady," Podrick answered her, knowing full well what she was getting at. 

He knew where he came from. His cousin had beheaded the girl's father, and his family was not well loved. He also knew, however, that he was infinitely better than the lot of them; it didn't take much. 

His life's purpose was to prove that to the world. 

He didn't need to prove it to himself. 

He held his head high at that moment and his chin out. 

Tormund watch the exchange intently. He had no idea what was going on, but he was entertained, to say the least. 

Neither of them said a word for several moments before Arya turned to Jon. Their gray eyes locked for a second before she spoke. 

"And you trust him?" she asked him. 

"Yes. I do," Jon told her, without hesitation. 

"Very well," Arya nodded, relaxing just slightly, "Names are shit. Just another symbol...but I wanted to be sure. Hello, Podrick."

Podrick grinned at her, bowing again. 

Tormund grinned too. 

She might very well gut the Lannister for him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perfect Tormund is perfect. 
> 
> Also, I own naaaaaahhthing.

Brienne was pulling her chest plate over her head when she heard the knock at her door. She sighed, setting it down on her bed, before reaching for the cool wet rag she had been using moments ago, pressing it to her eyes again, in a futile attempt to minimize their puffiness.

Of anyone who would be calling on her, she expected Sansa. Brienne knew that Podrick would have informed her of Brienne's departure, and that she might let her be for the rest of the night, choosing to spend every moment she could reacquainting herself with her sister. Brienne also knew the young lady to be polite enough to check in on her, however, or to send someone.

Podrick might also be checking on her himself, a more annoying possibility, however much she adored her squire. She had been in a bit of...state...when she left him, and while he should know better than to bother her after witnessing as much, sometimes he felt more than he thought. 

She hadn't seen Jaime in the great hall, and Bronn had informed her that he had chosen to take his meal in his quarters, drained after the day he'd had. 

She could relate. 

He might very well have decided to call on her, however, and she knew him well enough to know that however he found her would do little to dissuade him away. If he needed company he would have it, so she took a deep and intentional breath, and she tried to prepare herself for the possibility of him. 

She wished her eyes were less puffy...her face less splotchy and pink than she knew it was. 

Whoever was at her door would notice and it might lead to questions, and she would really rather just not. She released another bothered sigh and stepped towards the door. She pulled it open, but standing in the hall was not at all one of the people she'd expected.

"Tormund?" she said to him quietly, and for a second his eyes looked pained as he met hers. 

"The boy...he said you might be upset," Tormund told her evenly, "Thought this might help."

He offered her his wineskin. She eyed it for a full ten seconds, her brow intensely furrowed, before she reached her hand out, taking it from him...very slowly. 

"I..." Brienne began, but her words escaped her for a moment when she looked up and into his eyes, finding only kindness in them. 

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Are you...alright then...?" Tormund asked her, the concern plain on his face.

That was all it took.

Standing in place, her shoulders tensed desperately, one hand gripping at the wineskin and the other at the hem of her gambeson. Her face dropped and she broke down again. 

"Oh no..." Tormund choked out as his eyes shot wide open, panicked. He stood there stupidly, not knowing what to do for a split second, before he instinctively moved towards her, "Here. C'mere."

Her body didn't give at all as tried to ease her into his huge arms, but he inched in and wrapped them around her anyway. She didn't pull away. Instead she buried her face in crook of his neck, her free hand moving from her hip to the furs at his chest and grabbing there, while the other still clung to his wineskin. 

She cried into him, her shoulders shaking with each sob. 

"Shhh...shhh shhh shhh," Tormund whispered into her short blonde hair, frowning, "Yer alright, lass. I've got you."

Neither of them knew how long they stood in her doorway like that, Tormund doing his best to soothe her. His large calloused hand smoothed down the hair at the back of her head, while the other squeezed at her shoulder and bicep gently. 

It wasn't until he placed the third of three small kisses on the side of her head that Brienne became aware of herself; of what she had done. Her head shot up and she ripped herself away from him, her eyes hitting the floor and her face growing a deep red. 

She turned away from him instantly and made to slam the door behind her, but he grabbed her wrist and placed his foot at the base of the door, stopping her and it. 

He'd be good and fucked if he let her run away from him now. 

He'd never forgive himself. 

"Brienne," he growled.

She wrenched her wrist out of his hand and she slapped him, hard.

He smirked as he his hand creeped up to rub the side of his face. 

"Don't you ever grab me!" she barked at him, her eyes suddenly deadly, but only for a moment before   her remorse caught up with her rage, "Oh gods, I..."

"No," Tormund stopped her, "Yer right, I shouldn'a grabbed you like that. I just..."

He paused as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek. She looked so confused and it was all he could do to keep himself from embracing her again. 

"If you're not gonna drink it, I'll take it back?" he told her, nodding towards his wineskin still clutched in her fingers, "Face hurts now, wanna dull the pain."  
   
She gawked at him incredulously. The gentle smile on his face turned mischievous.

And then she smiled. 

And then she laughed, her free hand moving to cover her mouth as she did.

And it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. 

He chuckled back at her, pleased with himself.

"I don't...well...what is it...?" Brienne asked him after a moment, glancing down at the wineskin.

"Sour goats milk," Tormund told her proudly, clasping his hands together behind his back and puffing his chest out a little as he said the words. The look on her face inspired another laugh from him, "All you southerners make that face, but trust me when I tell you it helps."

Her smile grew a little sad, and she nodded after a second, believing him.

"I hardly ever drink," she confessed to him.

He was well aware. 

"It'll do the job even better then," he told her, grinning, which earned him an eye roll and another quiet laugh. 

"Will you...join me?" she asked him shyly after a moment's consideration, absent-mindedly biting her lower lip as she forced her eyes away from him to glance back into her room. 

It was tidy and her fire was burning bright. 

"Yes, of course," Tormund answered, controlling his tone so as to not sound too eager.

She stepped back and gave him a little wave, granting him access to her room. It was on the same floor and in the same hall as Sansa's, two doors down, and it was much nicer than the room he'd chosen to occupy when presented with his options after they'd retaken the castle. 

Tormund knew he would spend at least half his nights at the wilding camp with his people, so he chose simple little servant's quarters in the eastern wing of the castle, where Jaime had also been placed. He required very little, and his modest room more than sufficed for him, as it would have for Brienne. She'd suggested as much to the younger woman to whom she was sworn, but Sansa wouldn't hear of it and ultimately Brienne figured it was better to keep close to her. 

Tormund stepped directly towards a small, but masterly carved heavy wooden table which stood in the center of the room, two sturdy wooden chairs on either side of it. He sat in the one that had been pulled out slightly at some point earlier in the day, and he pulled a layer of furs off. The fire was doing its job and well. 

Brienne stood at her door, pondering for a moment whether it was wise to close it; whether it would prove too scandalous, but she decided she really didn't care in that moment...not much anyway...and so she shut it, though a bit reluctantly. 

She turned towards him. He was staring at her, his face rather expressionless, but his eyes were shining. She moved towards the second chair and sat herself down across from him, bracing both of her elbows on the edge of the table, her fingers working at the cap of the wineskin. When she pulled it off and the smell hit her nose her face twisted violently. 

Tormund's laugh earned him a glare. 

Brienne eyed the wineskin suspiciously as she brought the end of it to her lips and forced herself to take a swig. She managed two swallows before she had to stop, gagging a little as she thrust the container over to him. He took it, throwing back a couple of eager gulps easily.

"Oh gods, that's awful," Brienne breathed out, coughing and Tormund laughed at her again as he handed the drink back to her, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken challenge. 

Her expression turned brutal in an instant and she snatched it away from him and took another two drinks. She tried to force her face to not contort in utter torment and disgust, but mighty as she was, she couldn't keep her expression even and it turned as sour as her as the liquid in her mouth in two seconds flat. 

Tormund's laughed filled the room and this time she joined him, quiet chuckles escaping her lips between her gagging. 

"It's horrid," she choked out, shaking her head, the top half of her face frowning, but the corners of her mouth raised in a small smile, "How can you drink it?" 

"I told you...it helps," Tormund shrugged back at her casually, "Helps with the cold. Helps with pain, so you get used to it, and in time you'll start to crave it's warmth." 

He hadn't meant for his words to sound suggestive, and she could honestly tell, but in that moment she was thankful that her thick sleeves covered the gooseflesh on her forearms, and that her face was likely still flushed enough from her sobbing to mask the blood that rushed to her cheeks. 

"I find that...hard to believe," she whispered, as she took another drink. This one went down smoothly, and her surprise was evident in her bright blue eyes. 

"Atta lass," Tormund beamed at her, slamming a wide palm down on the table in encouragement. 

She turned her head away from him shyly, her fire suddenly seemingly interesting to her. 

They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes before Tormund spoke up. 

"Do you want to talk about it, Brienne of Tarth?" He asked her then, and she sighed. 

"Not particularly," she turned to meet his eyes, "But I will. I owe you an explanation at least." 

"You don't owe me shit," he inisisted, her face more severe than she'd ever seen it before, "But if you want to talk about it...or if you need to...I can listen." 

She considered his words. She believed him when he said that she didn't owe him anything. She believed that he wouldn't resent her not opening up to him about what had happened; about how he'd seen her. 

And then she wondered if she did need to talk, regardless of whether she wanted to or not. 

"I was just...overwhelmed..." she started quietly, "When I saw that girl's face. I was sure she was dead, and I'd blamed myself, in a sense." 

"For not finding her her?" Tormund asked her. 

"No, not really," Brienne clarified, "I did find her...and I terrified her. I likely killed her traveling companion and protector, assuming the worst of him. How was such a little scrap of a girl to survive in the world without...someone? I didn't know, he might have been harming her...but...in time it became clearer to me that he wasn't, and rather, that I did." 

Tormund didn't say anything. 

He just listened. 

And so she continued. 

"When I saw her...when I saw her with her sister, I thought of their dear mother, and I wondered if she could see, or know...somehow, that they had both made it home." 

She paused. 

"Despite me," she finished, her eyes and her voice cold. 

She took another drink before handing the wineskin back to him and he allowed himself another as well. 

"And...Sansa..." she started, but she stopped herself. That was not her truth to tell, however much the tragedy of it had weighed on her all day. 

"She's carryin'," Tormund spoke it for her, however, and her mouth dropped open in shock. 

"How did you...?" Brienne stuttered. 

"My wife bore me two girls," Tormund told her then, his eyes softening as he explained, "It's a frightening thing, all that happens to a woman. I loved her. I paid attention." 

Brienne's eyes never left his as he spoke. He was being incredibly open with her. He was talking of love and of loss; not shying away from it in the slightest. She would not let herself shy away from him as he did, but the look in his eyes and he spoke of his family made her chest feel heavy and her eyelids start to sting again. 

"Figured she was for a few days now, but Jon Snow confirmed it for me earlier," he told her, and then he stopped her before she could ask, seeing her frown a little, "He didn't tell me, mind you. Just confirmed it. Asked about my people. If there were any I really trust who plan to keep moving south. If they would wait...some months. I got it outta him." 

"I see," Brienne murmured, winding her long fingers together at her chin. 

"She's been trying to kill it," Tormund stated then. 

Brienne searched for the judgment in his tone, but she couldn't find any. There was just a flat statement of a fact. 

"Yes," Brienne nodded, affirming what he'd suspected. 

"It's not for me to have an opinion on that. Can't imagine what she's sufferin'," he said shaking his head softly, "Do you think she'll try again, though...after?" 

"I don't," Brienne told him in reply, sounding surer than she felt. 

Tormund stared at her, the intensity in his gaze as he studied her forcing her to avert her eyes, lest she blush. 

"There's more...more that was gettin' to ya?" he asked her, relaxing as he moved to rest his elbows on the table. He mimicked her earlier position, settling his chin on his balled up hands. 

"Is that not enough?" she laughed over at him in response, and he gave her a wide smile. 

There was more. 

There was so much more. 

There was Jaime, a good friend to her, but not a good man, she knew. He had done terrible things in his life, and would likely do more, though hopefully in the future with more honorable intentions. Still, he was her friend and he was broken; his heart shattered and his mind overcome, processing his desire for, and the actual possibility, of any redemption for all that he'd contributed to. His hands shook and she could see that his nerves were painfully on edge every second spent within Winterfell's gates. 

There was the death of his sweet son, and of that boy's wife, who Brienne had never really trusted, but who had always been exceedingly kind to her and who she'd considered a friend. 

There was Podrick, his life and his well being in her hands; hands she hardly trusted anymore. 

There were her failures, ever present in her heart and in her mind. 

Renly. 

Catelyn. 

Her duty to her father...to Tarth. 

There was the threat of Cersei. 

There was the threat black magic and it's minions beyond the wall. 

"Aye," Tormund muttered a quiet agreement, "It's enough, but there's more." 

"I feel...helpless," she confessed after a few moments, slouching into the back of chair, "Everyone is in so much pain and at such risk...and I feel helpless. 

Tormund sighed. 

"They're lucky to have you," he told her after a moment and she frowned at him. 

"Honestly, woman!" he chuckled at her, before his face grew serious and his voice hardened. His eyes held hers as he spoke, "They're all bloodly luckly to have you. I would take on all of their pain and all of their risk if it meant that I could have you, Brienne."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intended for grown folks. 
> 
> And I still own nothing.

Brienne stared at him, dumbfounded for several seconds, at a complete loss for what to say.

Tormund stared back at her, taking in her shocked deep blue eyes, the hard straight line of her lips, the way every muscle and tendon in her strong body tensed at his words. 

She had no idea how marvelous she was. 

She had absolutely no idea.

She actually thought quite the opposite of herself and that was hard for Tormund to wrap his head around. 

How could she not know how marvelous she was? 

How had no one ever told her? 

He sat there and he watched her, taking some solace in the fact that as petrified as she clearly was, and as much as she clearly wanted to bolt away from him, she hadn't yet. 

She just sat there, meeting his gaze, terrified, but brave. 

He imagined that she would be a wonder to watch in battle. 

He looked away before she did, his eyes dropping to the wineskin as he took it in his hand and drank. The milk was nearly gone. His eyes rose to meet hers, but by then hers had fixated on her hands, splayed out over the table in front of her. 

"You want the last of it," Tormund asked her gruffly, breaking the deafening silence at long last.

She gave a sharp jerk at the sound of his voice, turning away from him as he moved the wineskin towards her. 

"You don't have to..." she started, but he cut her off.

"I've had plenty, I don't mind..." he insisted. 

"No, I meant..." she stuttered then, finally turning back to face him, "That's not what I meant."

He gave her a little confused look.

"What did you mean then?" he inquired, perplexed. 

She dropped her eyes again, but he reached for her, prepared to have his hand lopped off in an instant, but also wondering if it wouldn't be worth it. His index and middle finger lifted her chin back up until their eyes met again, before he pulled his hand back to himself. 

"Tell me," he demanded gently. 

"You don't have to...you...wouldn't have to...take all of that on..." Brienne whispered, her voice trembling, "To have me."

"That's good," he muttered after a long pause, feeling like he'd just been punched in his throat. 

He had not been expecting that. That had actually been the very last thing he expected her to say. He was silent for a long while, processing her words. 

"So...what would I have to do, then...to have you?" he asked her, his jaw tight, and his hands curling into fists on the table as he tried to compose himself. 

"I...I think you might already...have me," Brienne told him, a small frown clouding her features.

"Right," Tormund replied, the room was suddenly burning hot, and he was fighting an overwhelming need to reach out to her, "Can you think on it more...sober?"

Brienne gulped and gave him and awkward nod, as she reached for the wineskin. She tossed back what was left in it, scowling at the taste.

"Right," Tormund nodded back at her as he rose to his feet, gathering the furs he'd shed upon entering his room into his left arm. 

Brienne's eyes stayed on him and she stood up as well. He was going to leave and as much as she was fighting her own desperate urge to reach her fingers to his face, to run them through his beard and over the cheek she'd slapped earlier, she was equally relieved. 

He moved to exit her room and she followed him, leaning against the edge of the door as he stepped into the hall. He turned to face her.

"Sleep sweet," he told her, giving her a little bow as his eyes bore into her. 

She nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and he stepped away, but her voice stopped him before he was out of her line of sight. 

"Tormund," she called out to him, mindful of the fact that people might already be sleeping, but hoping that her voice reached him before he got too far. 

It had. He turned back to her.

"Thank you," she told him.

A blush crept up her neck and into her face. She dropped her head a little.

"Aye," he said eyes shining over at her before he left. 

She turned, shutting the door behind her. She stepped towards her bed and sat down, her hands immediately working to unbutton her gambeson before she shook it off her shoulders, glad to be free of it. She unbuttoned the vest she wore over her tunic and pulled it off her shoulders as well, before she stood up and unbuckled her belt, kicking off her breeches and the fur lined pants that she wore beneath them and exposing her hopelessly long and heavily muscled legs. She felt very warm all of sudden and she wondered if the fire had felt the loss of warmth in the room at Tormund's departure, and if it was trying to make up for it. 

She thought then of magic and she wondered if there was some magic in northern fires that was especially adept at keeping it's people alive through the torturous winters, and if that magic had possessed her into revealing so much of herself to Tormund. 

She aimlessly paced around the room, running the fingers of one hand through her messy short blonde hair, while the other hand unlaced the collar of her tunic. She pondered the madness of her own thoughts, and she then realized she was likely drunk.

She laughed at her absurdity. She was most definitely drunk, and she found she quite liked the way she felt. She had relaxed as soon as Tormund had left her, no longer worried about embarrassing herself in front of him again, or confessing more than she had. And as soon as she relaxed all of the alcohol in her blood seemed to rush from her muscles to her brain, and she was quite positively drunk. 

She laughed again as she plopped her bottom back down onto her bed, her fingers finishing the job of unlacing her tunic until the hollow at the middle of her breasts was exposed and she felt it was easier to breathe.

She thought of Tormund then and she inhaled a sharp breath at the sudden wave of desire that ran straight down her belly, ending in an warm, wet, throbbing ache between her thighs. She pictured his wicked smile and his glittering eyes looking over to her, no malice in them, just a sincere and blatant want of her, something she'd never experienced before. 

She had thought he was just like all the others; worse even, a prejudice against his kind having been ingrained in her since she was a small child. 

She frowned a little. 

How had she misjudged him so completely?

But she wouldn't beat herself up over that now. 

Maybe in the morning, when she was less pleasantly inebriated. 

She didn't think he would want her to, anyway. He would want her to enjoy herself and he would want her to rest, to sleep.

'Sleep sweet,' he'd told her as he left. 

She remembered and she bit her bottom lip as her hand worked its way beneath her under clothes and she pulled one foot to the edge of the bed, her heel braced there and steadying her, but her thighs spread wide now, granting her much better access to her sex. She would sleep sweet, her eyelids were already heavy, but she would tend to this one thing first.

She gasped and her eyelids shot closed when the tips of her fingers first touched her swollen, obscenely wet folds. 

Brienne was still a maid, but her maidenhead had long been sacrificed to her hand, and she'd long since been able to give herself tremendous amounts of pleasure without the threat of blood or pain. She hadn't realized it was possible to tear it on her own, and right after it happened she had worried about the implications of having done so, but a second later that worry gave way to an imeasurable amount relief at the fact that no man would ever take it from her. 

She ran her long fingers up and down her slit, wetting her clit, before she moved a finger to either side of its hood, trapping it, and rubbing around it using the smallest amount of pressure. A quiet cry escaped her throat, and she slammed her jaw shut to try and muffle any further sounds. 

Her back fell back onto the bed as she snaked her second hand under her clothes, plunging two fingers into her cunt and rocking her hips, while the middle finger on her first pressed directly onto her swollen aching clit and she rolled around it expertly. 

She came hard and it took all of her strength not to cry out, imagining that she was clenching down on thicker fingers than her own; thick, calloused finger with wiry little red hairs at the knuckles. 

She would have cried out his name, and she might have woken someone doing so, and she was not at all prepared to deal with that, so instead she fought the violent compulsion within her chest and only quiet little pants and gasps escaped her mouth as she reached, and then toppled over, her peak. 

Her hips bucked when she wrenched her her fingers out of her body and she moaned. She immediately gathered the mass of blankets and furs surrounding her and pulled them over her shoulders, snuggling into them as she fell right into the sweetest sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.

An hour later found Tormund walking along Winterfell's ramparts, puffing on his new pipe. He'd traded Davos a moose pelt for it a few days prior. It was an intricately carved, ornate little wooden and silver thing, worlds fancier than anything he'd ever owned. He quite liked it.

He narrowed his eyes out towards the forest surrounding Winterfell's south end. He wasn't on watch, Jon hadn't thought to place him on one in a long while, preferring instead that Tormund slept at night so that he might be clear headed and focused in the mornings, to better counsel the young king. 

But Tormund hadn't slept well at night in longer than he could remember. He would walk the walls instead, or make the trek out to the wildling camp to catch up with his people, and to see if there was anything more they needed. The free folk were a hearty bunch, and they required much less than most, but he saw to it that they had that, at the very least, if not more; more food and drink, more firewoord and heavy furs to keep them warm these long nights. 

By the time his eyes grew tired and he could sleep it was usually well into the dark morning hours.

He was sobering up from the milk he'd shared with the Maid of Tarth, regrettably. It had warmed him, along with the memory of her confession. He smiled and the chuckled to himself imagining her in the morning and in the light of day, somewhat hungover and possibly mortified. The image endeared her to him more, rather than upset him. 

She was a strange woman. 

He liked that about her. 

He liked everything about her. 

He decided right then that he would let her come to him when she was ready. 

He had gone to her enough, made himself clear enough, and in as polite and controlled a southron manner as he could manage while preserving his own sanity. He was happy to do what he could to aid in her comfort and acceptance of him, but he respected himself and he knew his worth as a man. His wife had taught him well and he wanted Brienne to want to be near him of her own accord.

He pulled his pipe to his lips and he took another pull of it, the blackleaf smoke burning it's way into his lungs in the most wonderful way. The small tin where he kept his sulfer tips was empty, so he took one more quick puff before he tapped out the cup and pocketed it. 

He sighed as he exhaled, and then he heard hushed voices, which immediately claimed all of his attention. He walked towards the sound. 

Jon Snow and his little sister; the littler one; stood at the far eastern end of the wall.

"What will she do with it?" Arya asked Jon quietly.

"I don't know," Jon answered her, his voice sounding sadder than Tormund had maybe ever heard, and Jon Snow was a depressing fellow, "She might come to care for it. If she doesn't we'll have to see to it that someone does. It will have father's blood. That alone should earn it a chance."

"It will have more of that demon's blood running through its veins, Jon," Arya frowned at him, shaking her head a little before she noticed the huge man approaching them over Jon's shoulder, "Jon. Your friend."

Her eyes met Tormund's and he gave her a little nod. Jon turned around to face him, and Tormund clapped a large hand on his shoulder. 

"Tormund," Jon acknowledged him before glancing back over at Arya, "It's alright, Arya. He knows."

"You told him," Arya glared at him then. 

"I guessed," Tormund corrected her. 

"Oh," she whispered, her face relaxing just slightly. 

"Oi, scrapper," Tormund patted her shoulder with his free hand, grinning sweetly at her as he did, but causing her to tense nonetheless, "I'm on your side. I'm on your sister's. And I'm on the King Crow's. Until I die."

She held his gaze with her hard gray eyes for a few moments before she nodded at him. She turned to look back over the wall. 

"It all looks so...different, Jon," she murmured. 

"Aye," Jon agreed with her quietly, "So do you."

Arya elbowed him in the chest, not hard enough to do any actual damage, but hard enough to knock him back a step. Tormund's laughter boomed out through the forest. Jon laughed too, before wrapping his arms around her shoulders, trapping her from behind. 

"I missed you," she whispered, grinning "I missed you the most."

"I missed you too, Arya," Jon hummed. 

Tormund knew they had always been close, maybe the closest of Lord Stark's six children. His presence did little to dissuade their open affection for each other, and he wasn't bothered in the slightest. He stood beside them, looking out into the forest then too, setting his elbows on the wall and crossing his arms before him. 

"Where were you, before you came back home, wolf girl?" Tormund asked Arya, glancing over at her. 

"I was...traveling," Ayra told him, steadily. He figured she had already told her siblings her story, but she didn't seem to mind him asking, and he was curious, "I was in Braavos for some time. Before that, I was running"

"Where's Braavos?" Tormund asked her, frowning a little. He'd never heard of it.

"It's east, across the narrow sea. A free city at the edge of the easterlands," she answered him.

"And what did you do there?" Tormunds pressed, his eyes turning back to the forest. 

"I learned..." she answered him, unphased, "How to fight and how to kill. How to hide."

"Did you hear at all about this dragon queen? She's coming from the east, no?" Tormund asked then.

"Only a little," Arya replied, "She set sail at the southern end of the easternlands, never came to Braavos. But news of her traveled up to us. Jon, did you know that the imp is with her? The Lannister?"

It had just occurred to her that such news might be of some use. 

"Another Lannister?" Tormund mumbled. 

"What do you mean ANOTHER?" Arya's eyes narrowed as she pulled herself free from Jon's grip and turned to face him.

"Arya," Jon started, but she cut him off. 

"What aren't you telling me, Jon?" she hissed at him, "I've asked you about the Lannister men walking on these grounds twice now, and twice you've avoided the subject."

"Oh..." Tormund mumbled, "Sorry brother."

Jon turned to him and gave him a glare before his eyes met Arya's again.

"Yes, I had heard that Tyrion Lannister stands at the side of the Targaryen queen. He betrayed his sister, and I'm hoping to have him as an ally in any dealings with her," Jon told her, watching as her jaw dropped open and her eyes grew wild in disbelief.

"Wait, it gets better," Tormund chuckled. 

"Tormund!" Jon barked at him, and Tormund shut his mouth, but a sly smirk was still plastered on his face. 

"Don't you snap at him, KING Jon," Arya bit back at him, "If it wasn't for him you'd still be lying you me."

Tormund crossed his arms at his chest, turning his full body towards the, the grin on his face growing wider. 

"I haven't lied, Arya," Jon sighed, "I've just...omitted."

"So Tyrion sent Lannister soldiers here?" Arya question, her brow furrowing deeper as she crossed her own arms at her chest, cocking her head to the side.

"No, not quite..." Tormund whispered, leaning his head towards her. 

"Tormund?!" Jon bellowed.

"Easy, King Crow," Tormund beamed over at him, "You'll wake your whole castle."

"You're dead," Jon growled at him through gritted teeth.

"No he's not," Arya snapped back at him, "What aren't you telling me, Jon?"

He signed, his shoulders slumping, defeated. 

"Both Lannister brothers have betrayed Cersei," he muttered, "Jaime Lannister brought his men here." To help."

"Jaime Lannister is here?!?! AT WINTERFELL?!?!" Arya screeched at him, throwing her arms into the air, "I'll kill him."

She moved away from them instantly. She would find Jaimie Lannister and she would gut him. For her father. For everything. 

Tormund looked endlessy amused as Jon punched his shoulder, huffing before he started after her. 

"Arya. DON'T," he ordered her, the command in his voice stopping her in her tracks. 

She turned back to him, her eyes stinging with unshed tears of white hot rage. 

"You've changed. I've changed. The world has changed and everyone in it. Some for the better," Jon told her, walking right up to her and taking her hands in his, "He gets to try and make it right...as much as he can. I've allowed him that. I have no love for him, not an ounce, but I've allowed him that. He is my guest."

He paused, pulling her hands to his chest. Her fingers flattened right over his heart and she could feel it beating in them. 

"He is our guest," Jon continued, "We will not betray that. Please, promise me that you won't."

She considered his words for a full minute, before the tears that had welled in her eyes rolled down her cheeks. She wrenched her hands away from him and turned around. 

"Fine," she spat over her shoulder, "I'm going to bed."

Tormund watched the scene and as he did his expression grew serious. 

Jon turned to face him, but there was no longer anger in his eyes, just a deep sadness. 

"Snow, I..." Tormund began, but Jon waved away his apology before he could give it. 

"No, it's okay," his friend insisted weakly, "She's just...she's vicious, Tormund. She's grown...viscous."

"Aye," Tormund nodded, agreeing quickly, "I think she probably had to."

"She killed Walder Frey," Jon muttered, "She cut up his sons, she baked their flesh into an egg pie, and she fed them to him before she cut his throat and watched him die. She didn't HAVE to do that."

Tormund paled a little. 

"Fuck me," he choked out, "That was...her?"

"Aye. And Sansa fed her husband to a pack of starving dogs," Jon nodded, "She talks of taking a knife to her belly to kill that man's spawn before she ever has to think of it as an innocent."

"And neither of them are wrong, but...they're viscious, Tormund," Jon continued, a lone tear running escaping his eyes, "My little sisters."

"They're women, "The world takes a differnt toll on them. They have to be harder and slyer and stronger than we will ever have to be. Sometimes that goes a little...wrong. They're not lost, though, Jon. They're here, both of them now."

Jon took a deep breath, straightening his back and his shoulders, calming himself. He nodded. 

"Fucking frightful little women though, damn," Tormund muttered, shaking his head, running the fingers of one hand through his beard in contemplation. 

"Right?!" Jon laughed back at him, his whole stance relaxing for just a second before something on the ground and moving towards the castle from the depths of the forest caught his eye. 

Tormund saw it too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but my heartache at the thought of Hodor.
> 
> *sobs*

They had been so close to Winterfell when his uncle had left them. She could walk to it and touch it's walls, but he hadn't been ready to reveal himself, not after his last vision, the one that held him in this state; weakened and disconnected from the reality where she spent her days watching him.

He'd told her they had to wait until he understood better, and more. She had insisted he could do as much from within his ancestral home, where it was safe. 

And then he told her that it wouldn't be until he knew and understood more. 

Weeks passed and they were safe...enough, and warm...enough, hidden in their cave, but Meera longed for walls and armies of men between her what followed them. She could not remember ever in her life having had any such desire for those things. She was always a child of the wild, always wanting to fight and hunt and run in the wind and along the marshes and ponds near her own home. She'd never believed she needed walls, or men, for much of anything. 

That was before Jojen's quest.

Before Brandon Stark. 

Now they were hunted, he was haunted, and she hadn't slept more than two hours at a time in far too long. She hadn't bathed in far too long. She hadn't spoken to anyone save Bran in his lucid moments, and they were few, in far too long. 

She loved Bran. She loved him as she had loved her dear little brother, and she tended to him more carefully than Jojen had ever required. She had been to the end of the world with him and she would again if he asked her. In that moment, however, watching him; his body jerking every few seconds, his eyes rolled back into his skull, his face glistened in sweat, despite the ever present chill that crept into the cave from the outside world; in that moment she wished she could see anyone else.

She missed Jojen. He might have been able to at least explain what was happening to their friend.

She missed sweet Hodor and she longed to talk to him, just to have him nod, and smile, and tell her, "Hodor."

A lump formed in her throat at the thought of him.

Bran convulsed then, and he screamed. Meera rushed to his side. She could see his irises when he blinked up at her, before he jerked his head to the side to vomit. 

Meera's bottom lip quivered. He was so sick, but he wouldn't let her leave him to get him help, and he wouldn't let her take him to get him help, and she was at a loss as to what else to do, so she just helped pull his hair away from his face, clearing a path to the ground for him to dispel the small amount of food she'd managed to get into him hours ago, when he had last come to. 

The direwolf who had been with them since their first day back stepped into the cave. She was calm as she watched them, keeping her distance as always. 

She wasn't as sweet as Summer had been.

Meera missed Summer too.

This wolf would never let them touch her, but she brought them the food she hunted and she ate what Meera cooked with them. 

Bran called her Nymeria. He thought she might be his sister's wolf, though he hadn't seen her since she was a pup. He said Nymeria wouldn't be as sweet as Summer, though this beast was meaner than he thought she could ever be. 

He was convinced that when he called her name there was a hint of recognition in her dark eyes.

He said they would know, for sure, if the wolf and sister ever met again, but he was pretty sure the wolf was Nymeria; as sure as he was that Arya lived. 

He'd seen her in his mind, making her way north. 

He said she was meaner than he remembered too, and she had always been a little mean. 

The wolf paced the length of the cave in front of them, suddenly anxious, before she chose a spot and sat, panting heavily, her eyes fixed on them. Her behavior was making Meera nervous.

"Bran?" she whispered, turning his head in her hands to faced her, after it appeared that he had stopped wrenching.

"It's..." he started before breaking into a violent cough. He breathed deep, settling himself before he tried to continue, "It's time to go...to go home. Arya's home. The kingslayer's home. It's time."

Meera nodded urgently, jumping to her feet and moving to her pack. 

"Wait, Meera," Bran coughed out at her and she was back on her knees and at his side in a second, "I...if I don't make it there..."

"Shut up, Bran," she frowned at his words and made to turn and move away from him, but his weak hand grab her forearm. 

"No, LISTEN!" he pled, "You have to listen. I might make it. I might. I'm sick, I'll feel I'm dying, but I might make it. If I don't, though, Meera, you HAVE to. You have to get there."

"I will, Bran. It's so close " she murmured, brushing the hair that half covered his eyes out of his face. 

"You will," he nodded, taking deep labored breaths, "And when you do, you have to send for your father. Meera, it has to be the first thing you do."

She nodded, but she didn't understand. 

"My father?" she asked him, her confusion evident in her expression.

"Your father," Bran echoed, "Just send for him, but say nothing in the letter. You tell him only when you see him, that it's time...to talk about the tower, and the boy...Lyanna's boy. That's all you have to say, he'll know."

"Yes, Bran," Meera nodded, her voice clear and resolute.

"But you will tell him, and the sooner we get you there..." she talked as she moved back towards her pack, gathering what little they had any claim to, "...the better the chance of that. So shut up now, and let's go."

Bran gave her a weak, hoarse laugh.

The wolf shot up off her haunches and towards him then, and Meera froze. 

Bran, however, seemed to know her intentions. She laid at his side and he reached for her, pulling himself up onto her back. Meera stepped over to help him then. Bran's arms curled around the large animals neck, and he gripped at her fur. His chest and belly lay flat against her back and Meera positioned his legs to hang at either side of her. He would be heavy for her, but they didn't have to go far, and they would get there quicker than if Meera were dragging him. 

As she pulled and extra two layers of furs over his back, the wolf started to growl. She was done with Meera being so close, and Meera shot her hands up in surrender, moving instead to exit the cave, and hoping that he would be snug enough to brave the cold. 

They didn't have to go far, but he was so, so sick. 

That was an hour ago.

They didn't have far to go, but Meera was weak as well, and each step through the ice and snow and forest drained her. Bran grew heavier on the back of the direwolf and she was slowing too. 

She could see it though, through a break in the trees. She could see the castle walls, and the soft torchlight rising into the night sky from within. 

"We're almost there, Bran," Meera muttered out through chattering teeth. 

Bran didnt answer and her heart seized in her chest. She stepped towards the wolf, but she was met with a deep growl and bared teeth. 

"Just let me check him, please," Meera whimpered, about to risk the bite. 

"Father..." she heard Bran cry softly then. He was asleep and dreaming, or trapped in his mind again.

Meera saw his fingers curl into the wolfs coat and she turned around, back to the castle. It was enough. He was alive...enough. 

She forced her legs to push on.

"We're so close, Bran," she called back to him, "Just...please don't die. You're nearly home."

They made it through the forest and when Meera looked up at the castle for any sign of life, two men were already staring back down at her from high up on the rampart.

"Are you alone, girl? Are you alright?" the larger of the two hollered down.

Meera burst into tears, dropping to her knees. 

"Please..." she cried up to them, "I have Brandon Stark with me. He's the lord of this castle. He's not got long left, please. Please help us."

The smaller of the two men disappeared from her view, and the larger called down to her again after a beat.

"You stay right there, darlin', we're coming," he told her before he too was gone.

Meera believed him, and apparently the wolf did as well. She stepped over to the young woman and she dropped down, depositing her friend in her arms before bolting away.

"We made it," Meera whispered down at Bran, staring into the whites of his eyes, her hand pressed to his cheek, "If you can hear me, you stay with me. You're home."

It was a few minutes before she heard heavy footsteps running towards her, much heavier footsteps right behind them, and then another couple of pairs of boots cautiously shuffling through the snow towards them as well. 

A sword was drawn. 

"You, put that away and get back to the gates," she heard the gruff voice that had called down to her when she first appeared order, and the weapon was re-sheathed, "Your king and I can handle 'er. You! Go wake the maester...NOW, BOY!"

The feet that had followed the huge man ran away then, and quickly. Meera could hardly hold her head up and if she did she wouldn't be able to watch for continued life in Bran's face, but she listened carefully to what was happening around them. 

She glanced down at the dagger tucked into her waist, reminding herself that it was there. 

The smaller of the men she saw on the wall dropped to his knees before them.

"Bran?" he breathed, touching the boys face as if to to check that he was real, "Little brother?"

Meera forced her eyes up and she caught and held his. They were sweet Stark eyes, so like Bran's, and overcome with emotion.

"He needs help," she choked out, slightly panicked.

The man just nodded, wrenching the boy from her grip and hoisting his limp body over his shoulder, before making his way back towards the gate hurriedly.

Meera sat there watching them go for a moment, before her face twisted and her shoulders quaked. She sobbed openly.

They made it.

Bran was still breathing. 

Before she knew what was happening, she was off the ground and in the larger man's massive arms. He was warm. He smelled of smoke and leather and tea leaves. She gripped his furs and cried into his shoulder. 

"C'mon, let's get you warm," he grumbled at her quietly. 

Her head shot up after a moment, her eyes wet and wide. 

"I need to send a raven."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting fun.
> 
> I still own nothing.

When Brienne woke the next morning to the sound of Podrick knocking at her door, through the haze and the pain in her head, there was only one thought her mind. 

'What have I done?'

She groaned, pulling her hands up to rub her face. She noticed they smelled of sex. She groaned again, the memories of the night before coming at her in slow and vivid detail. 

Podrick knocked again. 

"My lad...ser...?" she heard him mumble. 

She glanced out her window and the sun was half in the sky. She'd slept too long. 

"One moment, Podrick, please," she grumbled towards the door, huffing before she pulled herself up out of bed and onto her feet. She searched for her first layer of pants and pulled them on quickly, stepping towards the wash basin to rinse her hands off and spash her face, before she padded on her bare feet to the door. 

"I brought your meal," he told her quietly, taking in her disheveled state. 

He made no mention of the fact that she had never missed breakfast in the hall with their hosts and allies, not once in their time at Winterfell. And he made no mention of the fact that she had never slept this late before, in all the time that he'd known her. 

It was so unlike her and he was worried, but he kept quiet about it. 

"Thank you, Pod. Our training will be a little late today, but I will hurry," Brienne told him apologetically.

"No, please don't," Podrick insisted, setting a covered platter down on the table and at the place where Tormund had sat, "Don't hurry, just please eat."

Brienne stepped towards the table, rubbing her eyes again, and Podrick moved to her fireplace to stoke the fire that was nearly out.

"You haven’t heard then, my lady?" Pod glanced over at her quizzically. 

He caught her attention as she forked a bite of scrambled egg into her mouth. She frowned at him and swallowed quickly. 

"Heard what, Pod?" she asked him, and he turned to face her. 

"We don't have to train this morning, if you end up otherwise occupied. A lot happened in the night," he started.

"Go on," she encouraged him to continue with a small wave of her hand. 

"Their brother," Podrick told her, gulping, "Brandon Stark. He returned last night. He's in a frightful state. The maester's hopes for him are...guarded. The king has been keeping vigil...Tormund was with him through the night. He just went to bed, asked if we could postpone our session 'til tomorrow. He was to ride to the wildling camp this morning, but that's been delayed now and he'll likely be gone the night."

"His grace didn't have his sisters woken until dawn. Their lambasting of him woke me," Podrick chuckled nervously as he continued, "I stay next to the maester, as you know, my lad...ser."

Brienne just nodded, stupidly. Her eyes were wide and her food forgotten.

"I've been trying to help since then. They're all up there with him, with Brandon...Bran they call him, his sisters and the king," Podrick continued, "I brought food up to them, and arranged some quarters for the girl."

"The girl?" Brienne asked him then.

"Oh, right! There was a girl with him," Podrick told her, "Says she's the daughter of Howland Reed, of The Neck. Of The Crannogmen. The people of the swamps. Meera...that's her name. Seems to care for him a great deal."

Podrick paused and the room was silent for a moment.

"So...right. My point is, essentially, that if you are needed in some other and more pressing capacity this morning, ser.. I mean, my lady, my training can wait, of course," the boy finished. 

Brienne blinked slowly, thinking on all her squire had told her in the last minute, before she shot up out of her seat. She shoved two large fork fulls of her breakfast in her mouth, before setting her utensil down with a clank and wiping her lips with the napkin that had been neatly folded on the platter. 

"My armor, Pod," she ordered shortly, and the boy rushed to gather all of the implements that made up her suit, while Brienne stepped towards her bed, snatching her breeches into her hand. She slipped on her vest and buttoned on her gambeson, before she turned to Podrick who held up her chestplate.

Once dressed she stepped towards the vanity at the corner of the room, her eyes avoiding the mirror, as they always did. She grabbed her comb, running it through her short hair in three quick strikes. There were no knots. That would do for now. 

She pulled on her cloak and she took her sword from the boy who held it out to her, before they both stepped from the room, fire and food forgotten. 

She didn't run towards the maester's chambers, but she walked very briskly, Podrick right at her heels, and ready for any command beyond her unspoken, 'Follow me.' 

When she reached the door she rapped her knuckles on it lightly, and she heard shuffling and voices inside. Maester Quint pulled it open after a few moments and he waved her inside. He looked exhausted, but positively lively compared to the Stark children. 

Sansa laid on the bed next to Brandon, propped up on her elbow, and holding one of his hands to her heart. She was still dressed in her night clothes, her feet bare and a robe hanging loosely off her shoulders. 

Bran was older than Brienne had envisioned. She'd heard so many stories of a child who loved to climb and get into mischief and disobey his mother any chance he got...before he was crippled. Of course he would have aged. He was practically a man now. He was long and lean, and a faint soft stubble dusted his chin. 

He was also rail thin, pallid and gray, and there were harsh dark circles under his eyes. 

Brienne could see so much of Catelyn in him.

Jon sat in a chair on the other side of the bed, his head tucked into arms crossed in from of him. He was asleep, snoring quietly. 

Arya stood at the far corner of the room, cloaked in a shadow. Her eyes flitted between her little brother and the woman who had just entered the room. They were red from crying, and her hands shook, but she tried her best to appear composed. 

"Lady Sansa," Brienne whispered over to Sansa, gingerly stepping towards the bed, "Is there...anything I can do?"

Brienne was wracked with guilt. 

She should have been up hours ago. 

Sansa just gave her a sad smile. 

"Seeing your face helps so much, Brienne," Sansa whispered back at her, before gesturing toward the foot of the bed, "Sit with us. Meet my brother. Have you eaten yet?"

"Yes...yes, my lady," Brienne told her as she sat down right next to Sansa's naked feet, "Podrick woke me, he brought me food. I'm sorry I slept so late, I..."

"Hush," Sansa ordered sweetly, sitting up then and gently resting Brandon's hand at his chest, "You deserve to rest and well, any chance you get. I would have woken you had I needed you."

"I...thank you, princess," Brienne nodded shyly. 

"Gods, is she always so bloody proper?" Arya barked over at them, frowning.

"Arya!" Sansa hissed at her sister, giving her a glare as she took both of Brienne's large hands into her dainty ones. 

They seemed to be getting reacquainted...and quickly. Brienne would have chuckled at the two of them had the present situation been less horribly tragic. 

"It's alright," Brienne assured her, before turning to glance at Arya herself, "And, well, yes. I think I might very well be irrevocably cursed with this blasted and unshakable propriety. Maybe you can help me with that, lady Arya?"

Arya smirked, despite herself, and her shoulders relaxed a little. 

"It's just...Arya," Arya muttered back, "For starters."

"Arya, then," Brienne said, smiling wider, "Is there anything I can do...for you, Arya?"

"No," Arya told her quickly, releasing a shaky breath, "I'm alright."

The maester mumbled something about red root then, and he excused himself, rushing out the door and slamming it behind him. Jon's head shot up off the bed in that moment and a sharp cry escaped his lips. 

Arya quickly moved towards him. Sansa watched the two of them, obviously concerned for her older brother, but there was some other thing in her eyes that Brienne couldn’t quite make out. 

"Jon?" Arya spoke to her, scowling a little at his clear distress. Her fingers worked their way into his curly black hair. 

"I was dreaming," Jon said then, as if trying to convince himself of that fact. 

"You were dreaming," Arya nodded dow at him, "You're here. Home. With us."

Jon looked to Sansa and then to Bran, before his eyes found Brienne's.

"Brienne," Jon mumbled then, collectimg himself, and Brienne suddenly felt as if she was intruding. She moved to stand, "No, no, please. Sit. Podrick brought you up to date then?"

"He did, your grace," Brienne told him, her eyes searching his for any idea as to what she could do to help. 

He understood the look. It was one he often wore.

"If you might...if you're free...?" Jon started and Brienne's expression brightened instantly.

"Of course," she told him quickly, squeezing Sansa's hands and meeting her eyes for a second before standing, "Anything."

"Lord Seaworth has left to Wintertown to try to procure some herbs...for the maester," Jon told her then, gesturing towards his little brother before continuing, "I was to ride out to the wildling encampment with Tormund today, to take stock of things. I would have sent Davos, but this errand became more urgent, and, well...he was here. Might you go in my stead, as my emissary?"

Brienne paled at his request, but she didn't skip a beat in answering him. 

"Of course," she nodded to him, her face filled with equal parts compassion for him, a sincere desire to to help, and absolute horror. 

Jon chalked it up to her being unfamiliar with the wildlings and less than fond of Tormund, as far as he knew, but he didn't want to delay the trip to the camp any longer than he had to. The maester had been promising them a blizzard, and soon, for a few days now. If structures needed built, or more food than they'd estimated needed carted out to the free folk, it would have to happen, and soon. 

"I...when will we...depart?" Brienne asked him, then, her voice catching in her throat. 

"He needs to sleep some," Jon told her as she rubbed a hand over his face, "Tormund. He had a long night, but he won't want to leave much later than an hour or two past mid-day. He'll want plenty of light left."

"Very well," Brienne nodded curtly.

"Please, take what you might need for the night, in case you get snowed in," Jon insisted.

Brienne just nodded at him politely, but on the inside she was reeling. 

"And, well, I hate to ask this of you," Jon finished, "But, if you could leave your squire? I trust him. In case another errand should arise."

Brienne was going to punch him. 

She was going to punch the king in the north. 

"It would be his honor, I'm sure," Brienne answered his request, forcing a small, but nearly entirely believable smile to her lips. Jon believed it, as did Sansa. Arya was less than convinced, but she kept quiet, "Podrick, please. Anything they need, you're at their disposal."

"Absolutely, ser...I mean, my lady," Podrick nodded, and Arya snorted in laughter at him, louder than she'd intended, earning her another glare from Sansa, and a very harsh, pointed looked from Jon as well. 

"Excellent," Brienne chirped, though the feigned  pleasure in her voice did not reach her eyes, "If you'll excuse us then, your grace. I will leave you with your family, unless there is anything else you require of me."

"No, thank you, Brienne. I'm in your debt," Jon told her, enough gratitude etched across his features to soften her towards him in that moment. 

"Not at all," she replied, giving him a small bow, before stepping towards the door, Podrick right behind her.

"Oh! Brienne?" Sansa called out to her then. Brienne paused and turned back to her, "I'm sorry, Jon has already asked so much of you...but, could you please check on the girl...Bran's friend? See if there is anything she needs from us...as a woman? And report back to me, before you leave."

Brienne nodded, so incredibly heartened by Sansa's request of her that it was hard to form the words to reply, but she didn't need to. Sansa understood...as a woman.

She made her way out of the room then, crossing paths with the maester as he rushed back towards his patient. He didn't look up to acknowledge her, and she didn't begrudge him that. 

"Podrick," she turned to her squire and he perked up upon hearing his name, "Ready a pack for me, a tent and provisions for the night, and if you could see to my horse," she paused, her hangover catching up with her, "And have someone prepare a bath for me. I'm going to check in on the girl."

"Yes...s..my la...yes. Yes of course," Podrick replied, moving away from her and towards the kitchens. 

As soon as she found herself alone in the hall she groaned, bracing her hands up against the nearest wall, and lightly banging her forehead against it repeatedly. 

"What are you doing?" Jaime asked her as he stepped into her periphery, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

She sighed, leaving her head pressed on the wall for a long beat before turning to him slowly. 

"I was having a moment," she told him, evenly. 

"You look positively destroyed, wench," Jaime smiled at her, chuckling, and she rolled her eyes at him, stepping towards him only because he stood in the direction where she needed to go. He fell into step right next to her, "Fun night?"

Brienne feet came to an abrupt stop, her jaw dropped, and her deep blue eyes shot wide open.

"Oh! You did have a fun night, didn't you? I was just teasing, but you've given yourself away, my dear," Jaime smirked over at her. 

"Jaime, please," Brienne groaned. 

"Now now, wench. You don't HAVE to tell me all about it in sordid and obscenely explicit detail, don't worry," he insisted, so immensely amused at her awkwardness that she might actually punch him. 

Twice. 

He might get the blow meant for Jon, as well as his own. 

"There's nothing to tell," she grumbled at him, frowning deeply, "Now if you would please, I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Is it true?" Jamie asked her then, his voice suddenly a serious whisper. He stayed at her side despite her clear and irritated suggestion that he could go on about his day, "About the boy?"

Brienne stopped walking. She sighed and turned to face him. 

"It is," she answered him, all annoyance at him melting away.

"Will he live?" Jaime asked, his expression unreadable.

"I don't know," Brienne told him and he nodded appreciatively at her honesty. 

"I had a dream, Brienne," Jamie told her, his brow furrowing tightly, "If he lives, I think I'm meant to die for him."

Brienne met his scowl with a grimace. She raised a hand to his cheek, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. 

"If he lives...just...talk to him," she whispered, "And we'll go from there."

Jamie took a deep breath and he nodded, but he did not raise his eyes to look at her. She moved her hand to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 

"I'll be gone for the day, on an errand for Jon Snow. I might be gone the night," she told him as she started walking again, "Will you be alright?"

"I will," Jaime promised her, "Bronn's dragging me along to the tavern at Wintertown. Haven't secured that pretty wife for him yet, or the lands he was promised, so I'm paying the interest in his drink."

Brienne grinned and glanced over at him out of the corner of her eye. 

"Be safe," she ordered him. 

"You too, wench," he answered her, and they parted ways.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to write this bit. 
> 
> I got a little attached to Meera after writing that one chapter, and I kinda had to disrupt the purely hetero nature of things to this point, so humor me...or don't...totally up to y'all.
> 
> Briemund mini-vacaaaaaaaay coming soon. 
> 
> Brace yourselves.
> 
> And in case it comes up, I'm going off the show with this story. Haven't read the books in several years, since the last one was released, and would have to brush up in order to be as true to them. 
> 
> So this is 'show' Meera and 'show' Brienne, and 'show' everyone else in terms of ages and descriptions. Show history, show canon. 
> 
> In case it wasn't clear.
> 
> Also I own nothing.

Meera had been up for half an hour, pacing in her room, staring out her window nervously, and  occasionally peeking out into the hallway for any news of Bran that she might intercept before it reached her door. As completely exhausted as she was, her worry for the boy had seeped into her subconscious. 

Before she woke she'd been hanging half off an icy cliff, losing grip on his hand, while he screamed up at her to let him go, to save herself. Her hand failed her and she watched him fall in to a blank white nothingness. In the next second Jojen was at her ear, screaming at her that she had failed...that she had let him die for nothing. She woke up weeping and she was reluctant to try and sleep again.

She sat down on her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest with a heavy sigh. She could go and see him, but she didn't quite remember the way, and she knew his family would want to have him to themselves for a least a little bit. 

She would wait until someone came for her.

And she would worry and and felt utterly helpless until they did. 

She stood up and started pacing again, and in that moment there was a knock on her door. She ran to it, ripping it open and seeing no one she recognized from her morning, but rather an incredibly tall, powerfully strong looking woman, who wore shining blue armor that matched her shining blue eyes. The woman's hand flew to the hilt of her sword at the frantic greeting she received, but she quickly dropped it back to her side, meeting Meera's eyes apologetically.

Meera couldn't help but gawk at her. She'd never seen a woman so tall. She'd hardly ever seen men so tall; her people were built much lower to the ground.

She'd never seen such kind, brilliant eyes. 

A warrior lady dragon knight of the stories she'd been read as a child had just appeared before her, and Meera suddenly wondered if she was still dreaming; if she'd wanted to wake up from this one.

She was instantly smitten. 

"I...um..." Meera stuttered.

"Lady Reed," Brienne started, giving her a little bow, "Or...well, do you prefer Meera? I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the customs of your people."

"I...um...Meera. Meera's fine," she told her awkwardly, earning her soft smile before the woman continued. 

"Meera. I'm Brienne of the Isle of Tarth, sworn sword to Lady Sansa Stark," Brienne informed her, all honor and propriety in her stance and in her manner, "She asked that I check in on you."

"Oh...alright," Meera nodded, stepping back a little and allowing Brienne access to her small room. 

She been placed with the single servant women, near the kitchens, as Winterfell was running short on space. As much as she didn't care, Podrick assured her that he would see about finding her more suitable rooms for her station. Meera was just happy to have walls around her to trap the heat of her fire, and a bed to lay on for the first time in too long. 

Brienne looked over at the girl, a young woman really, whose age Brienne figured closer to her own than Brandon Stark's. She wore a loose fitting tunic and breeches that had been laced so tight they bunched at the front, but they still hung on her protruding hip bones. She was nearly as thin as Bran, but she had some color to her, however faint, and she could stand. Physically she looked sound, considering the state of her traveling companion.

Otherwise she looked rather broken. 

Winterfell seemed to be attracting that sort these days. 

"Any news of Bran?" Meera asked her, sitting at the edge of her bed and gesturing for Brienne to sit next to her. 

"As far as I gather not much has changed from when you left him," Brienne told her gently, "But the maester's hard at work, and one of the king's men most trusted advisors was sent for medicine. It should help." 

Meera nodded, looking across the room to the far wall and at nothing for a moment before she forced her attention back towards the woman sitting next to her.

"You said your from where...Tarth?" Meera asked her, her expression blank, but her dark eyes glittering over at Brienne.

"Yes, my lady," Brienne nodded politely, "It's South. Very far south."

"Are all of your people so tall?" Meera asked her then, no malice in her tone or in her expression, just a sincere curiosity, but Brienne's face dropped sadly as she said the words nonetheless. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant no insult," Meera assured her, hoping to quickly remedy any damage done, "Well, my people are mostly all...small. Short. So I wondered, but you don't have to tell me. I've just, never met a woman so tall. You're quite lovely. Stunning."

Brienne's eyes shot over to met hers. The confusion and blatant disbelief at Meera's statement couldn't have been more evident. 

"I...I'm sorry, I..." she tried to speak, but her face was suddenly flushed and her words escaped her. 

Brienne wondered then if someone had poisoned the water in the wells with some sort of tincture that encourage unfounded adoring proclamations directed specifically at her; or blindness, at the very least. 

Had everyone gone mad in the bloody north?!

"Oh, you've never been complimented as such...by another woman?" Meera said then with a grin, suddenly understanding the sharp shift in the woman's demeanor, "I'm sorry. I'm...peculiar...in my preference, I know. Probably much more so where you come from."

"No, not at all...I," Brienne tried to interrupt, but Meera continued. 

"I thought we might have my peculiarity in common for a moment is all. You're so wonderfully...unique," the younger woman told her, a warm smile on her face, "Maybe a bit of hope against hope for a pleasant distraction after the months I've had, forgive me."

Brienne's head was still bowed, but she found herself grinning and she gave Meera sideways glance. Meera noticed and she chuckled. 

"Please, don't apologize. You were just very...blunt, my lady," Brienne explained.

"I usually am. Blunt, that is," Meera agreed winking over at the other woman, another small laugh escaping her and Brienne's back and shoulders relaxed at the sound. 

"Lady Sansa wondered if you might need anything that a woman should procure for you," Brienne told her then, remembering why she'd come, "Or if you might even, just need to talk...to another woman."

"Right. His sister. The older one. That's...very kind of her," Meera whispered, her eyes suddenly sad at the memory of everything she'd been through leading up to this point.

"Well, I'm not bleeding, and I haven’t been raped. What trauma I've suffered was at the hands of the cold and the fucked repercussions of idiot black magic by idiot mystical northern forest creatures," Meera said, staring at her fingers and picking at the cracked flesh at her knuckles as she spoke. 

She started trembling a little and Brienne lifted a hand to her back in a weak attempt at consolation. Meera jerked at the touch, but she didn't move away. Instead, she took a deep breath to collect herself as she looked back up to meet Brienne's gaze. 

"I guess...it is nice to see a woman. To speak to a woman," she smiled and her demeanor softened dramatically, "I haven't in some time. I'm starved, but he food the boy brought me earlier is so heavy. Isn't settling well. The bread even."

"I will go to the kitchens as soon as I leave to have something more suitable prepared for you," Brienne promised, and Meera's smile widened.

"And...well, I haven't had a bath in too long," she mumbled, "I'm sure I look a fright, and I smell awful. Oh, I've probably horrified you!"

She laughed loudly then, and Brienne could barely contain her own quiet giggle "No, not at all, my lady," Brienne lied.

"You're a terrible liar, Brienne," Meera smirked back at her. 

"I am," Brienne sighed, her brow frowning just a bit, but the smile on her lips still firmly in place, "You shall have a bath very shortly."

Meera beamed at her. 

"We'll be good friends, I think," she said sweetly, considering her words as she spoke them and finding only truth and a little bit of hope, "If I lose Bran I will need a friend, I think. And you're quite marvelous."

Brienne frowned as intensely as she blushed then, flattered, but so unaccustomed to the feeling that she didn't quite know how to react. Meera chuckled at her and Brienne scowled a little at herself, knowing she was being ridiculous, but not quite knowing how else to be in the moment.

"I will go see to your food and your bath, Meera, unless there is anything else," she told her, standing up quickly. 

"No. Thank you, Brienne," Meera assured her, feeling better than she had in recent memory. 

"Of course," Brienne gave Meera a shy smile and a small bow before turning to leave. 

As promised Brienne went straight to the kitchens, and she ordered a meal of onion broth and rice brought to the girl. She found a maid who would see to it that Meera had a bath sent to her as soon as possible. When those tasks were completed, Brienne rushed to her own quarters. 

Podrick was exiting her room as she stepped towards her door.

"Ser...I mean," he paused and sighed before continuing, "Your pack and horse are ready and the ladies are adding oils to your bath."

"Thank you, Podrick," she told him absently as she stepped into her room quickly and shut the door behind her and in his face. 

She hulked straight over to her bed and sat down, groaning and burying her face in her hands, and rubbing it fiercely in an attempt to compose herself. 

She sighed. 

And then she sighed again.

That was awkward, and the day just promised to get even more awkward. 

Tormund. 

Brienne found herself suddenly deeply annoyed. She growled he as she lifted her face to look up at the room and three dainty little maids just stared back at her, frozen.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty Briemund centric for the next couple of chapters, just fyi. 
> 
> Thank you darlings for being such darlings.
> 
> I own nothing.

Brienne laced up her left boot, feeling much more relaxed after her bath. She had let herself enjoy it, breathing the geranium and clary sage scented steam into her lungs and releasing a bit of her stress, and what physical consequence remained from the night before, in her exhale. 

There was a knock on her door as she knotted the laces. Podrick was nothing if not punctual these days, she mused with a smirk.

"Come in, Pod," she ordered and he scrurried into the room, a small sac of food tucked into his elbow, and another hanging from his opposite hand. 

"I brought some extra provisions," he smiled over at her. 

She stared at him quizzically. There was already food enough in her pack to last her two days, but she watched as he sorted through three loaves of rye bread and one loaf of white bread, a large wheel of white cheese, a small bag of what appeared to be rice or oats, a half a dozen potatoes, one bunch of carrots, a jar of some sort of red berry preserve, a jar of honey, and a two large bundles of dried, salted meat. 

"Podrick, I'm only to be gone for the night, if that," she shook her head, her blue eyes were fixed on the food

"Aye, but if you do have to spend the night it is customary among the free folk have something to share...with your hosts; and, well...there's over a thousand in that camp," he told her as he stuffed the food into her pack, "Tormund asked me to grab a little something extra for you to bring. I hope it's enough."

"Ah," Brienne breathed in reply, frowning.

Just like that the lightness in her mood disappeared.  

"He's awake then?" she asked, trying desperately to keep her tone casual, but failing, "Tormund?"

"He is," Podrick nodded over at her so focused on his task of situating her belongings that he was oblivious to her irritation, "I let him know that you would be accompanying him and that you would meet him outside the stables. He is seeing to the king, but said he'd be ready shortly."

"Fantastic," Brienne grumbled.

Podrick gave her a curious look, and she straightened the scowl on her face instantly, giving him a small smile instead. 

"Thank you, Podrick," she said then, deciding she had no reason to take her frustration at her imminent and crippling humiliation out on the boy, "You've been exceptionally helpful today. Please see to it that Sansa has anything she need while I'm away. Meera Reed as well, if you would?"

"It would be my sincere honor. How did you find her...Lady Reed, I mean?" Podrick asked her, remembering then that she'd been tasked with looking in on Winterfell's newest guest. 

"Well enough, I think," Brienne told him quickly, flushing a little and sucking in a sharp breath as she spoke, which he noticed and at which his expression became a little confused.

Brienne didn't give him a chance to ask her to clarify. She didn't know that she really could without wholly embarrassing herself. She just nodded towards her armor and he immediately refocused on his job of readying her. 

Fully suited up, Brienne wore her armor over two layers clean plain clothes, Oathkeeper at her hip and a dagger tucked into her right boot, tight fitting thick leather gloves on her hands, a hooded fur-lined cloak and a layer of heavy furs hanging on her strong shoulders, and a thick woolen shawl at her neck to cover the lower half of her face as she rode.

She felt too warm. She felt like she like she might suffocate, and as much as she dreaded the day ahead of her; as much as she was dreading coming face to face with Tormund after the drink and the secrets and the night that she'd shared with him; she was eager to get outside. Once she left the warm walls of Winterfell and she was at the mercy of icy winds that blew in from the north, she knew she'd be thankful for the layers of garb.  

Podrick hoisted her pack over one shoulder, her tent, bedroll and furs strapped to it, and he rushed to the door to open it for her. They made their way out of the room, down the hall, and they stepped outside, heading immediately towards Winterfell's stables. As they approached Brienne spotted Tormund at the barn doors, her chestnut colored mare's reins in one hand and those of his own black and gray speckled beast of a stallion's in the other. Her feet planted into the ground underneath her and she came to a halting stop.

He hadn't noticed her yet. He seemed to be sweet talking her mare into trusting him. Brienne glared at the two of them for a split second before Podrick pummeled right into her back with the whole of his weight, the added weight of her pack, and the momentum from the pace at which he'd been following her. 

"Gods, Pod!" she barked back at him, her breath beaten from her lungs at the impact. 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, m'lady, I..." he stuttered as he struggled to help straighten her up, and as she struggled to brush him away, "Forgive me, I didn't see you stop."

"Where in the seven hells were you looking if not forward, boy," Brienne muttered, trying for forgiveness; trying so hard. 

"I...um..." Podrick stammered, his eyes glancing to the right and far behind her for just a second, before they met her frown again. 

Brienne turned around and she watched the Lady of Winterfell step towards the leader of the free people from beyond the wall. Sansa's hand reached out and it stroked the mare's muscled neck softly. She was saying something to Tormund, but they were too far away to make any sense of what that might be. 

Brienne glanced back over at Podrick and his head was bowed and she could see the red rushing up his neck. She didn't quite understand the cause of his reaction, but he looked distressed enough to stir pity in her. 

"I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell, Podrick," she told him, her tone even and clear, "No harm done."

"Are you sure? I think I hit you rather hard, I...if we need to go see the maester...your ribs..." he stuttered.

"Hush. I'm fine, let's just...let's get going," she quieted him, one hand gently squeezing his shoulder. 

He nodded and Brienne sighed and turned around to meet her fate. She considered then all the people in her life who had ever commented on how brave she was; on how strong. 

She steeled herself internally. 

She could do this, she told herself. 

She could be brave. 

She and Podrick moved towards the stables and upon hearing their approach Tormund's eyes rose and they met hers instantly. There was only fierce adoration in them as he gazed at her; only a soft, heavy heat. She doubted he even knew, or had any control over what his eyes did in that moment; it seemed that raw. No one had ever looked at her like that, not in her whole life.

She paused again, her heart clenching in her chest.

She couldn't do this.

She had to turn around.

Sansa's voice was all that stopped her. 

"Brienne," Sansa called to her, moving the hand that had been rubbing the mare's snout sweetly to gently grip the furs covering Tormund's forearm, "I wanted to see you off. I was just asking Tormund to keep you safe for me."

"Thank you, my lady, though I assure you I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself safe," Brienne said giving the younger woman a soft smile and willing her blood back into her body, away from her cheeks. 

"I'm aware, but allow me the indulgence of knowing that I can ask a second set of eyes to watch out for you, and a second sword to guard your back," Sansa told her, taking Brienne's hand into her own, "For you are dear to me."

"Yes, my lady," Brienne whispered, nodding shyly. 

Sansa turned to Tormund, releasing Brienne's hands as she did. 

"You'll both only be gone for a moment, but you will both be missed terribly in that time. Do hurry back, and keep safe," she ordered them. 

Tormund nodded at her, giving her a little grin.

"Aye, little lady," he said, "Don't you worry 'bout us, not even for a minute."

"I don't know that I can help it, but I'll try," Sansa grinned back at him before she turned to Podrick who had just finished strapping Brienne's pack behind her saddle, "Podrick, will you accompany me back to the maester's quarters, please?" 

Podrick's eyes brightened. He stood upright, his back straight as a board, bringing him to his full height. He set his jaw, jutting his chin and his chest out impressively. Brienne had never seen him look as such. He looked like a man in that moment, more than he ever had to her before; a strong and gallant man at that. 

"Of course, princess. Happily," he murmured to Sansa as she wound her arm in his.

They both stepped back towards the keep, Brienne and Tormund staring after them. Brienne understood why exactly he'd barreled into her then. 

The boy was besotted. He was absolutely besotted with her beautiful, broken, terrified and jaded young princess. Brienne should have let herself feel more than relief at the knowledge that there was yet another person at Winterfell who would die to keep the girl safe while she was away, but Tormund's chuckle tore her from her thoughts and brought her back into the present. Her eyes shot over to him. 

"The boy's ambitious," he said then with a nod, a sly smirk on his lips as he handed the reins of her mare over to her and he turned to mount his own horse.

Brienne followed suit, but she said nothing. Her annoyance and discomfort was obvious in her expression, however, and in the tension that exuded off of her shoulders. It made Tormund's smirk broaden. 

"You volunteer to join me, or were y'ordered?" he asked her then, clearly immensely amused. 

Brienne rolled her eyes and she huffed as she gave her mare a soft kick, spurring the horse into a trot towards the gates. Tormund's fell into step right beside her and she glared over at his smug face. 

"I was asked," she finally answered him, curtly, meeting his eyes for just a second before she turned them forward, lest she drown in their warmth. 

"Ah," Tormund nodded, serious for a second before smiling again, "So you could'a said no...?

The glare Brienne continued shooting at him had the opposite of its intended effect. Tormund roared in laughter as he kicked his stallion's side with his heel, urging it into a brisk gallop. Brienne released a heavy sigh, pulling her shawl up to cover as much of her face as possible and following him outside the gates. She spared a glance back behind her to watch them close. 

They rode at that pace for thirty minutes, saying nothing to each other on the way. The thick blanket of snow on the ground rose up to the horses' knees and they had to practically plow through it. They brought them to a slower walk when they could sense the animals starting to tire. It would be another thirty minutes before they reached the outskirts of the wildling encampment. 

Brienne kept her eyes forward for the most part, but when they slowed she stole a glance at Tormund, who rode to her right. He was focused, his eyes narrow and fixed on the terrain ahead of them. After a moment he leaned forward to stroke the neck of his horse as he whispered some words of encouragement in the beast's ear. Brienne's glance became a stare and when he lifted his head back up he caught her eyes in his. He gave her a wide smile and his bushy red eyebrows arched over at her. 

She huffed and faced forward again, her own brow furrowing deeply while her cheeks reddened under the wool that shielded them from the elements. 

"We're close now," he called over to her, "We can get you in front of a fire as soon as we arrive."

Her scowl deepened. She hadn't realized that her teeth had been chattering until that moment, and the muscles in her extremities were starting to shiver.

"I'm fine," she bit back at him.

"You're cold," he countered, "Breath in through your nose if you can help it, 'stead of yer mouth. And tell yourself you're warm. Lie to your body enough and it'll believe you."

Brienne sighed. Her brow relaxed as she turned to him, but just a little. She was met with smiling eyes and she turned back away from them quickly.

"Right," she nodded, taking in a deep breath through her nose.

Brienne knew that Tormund was familiar with this weather. He'd lived in this cold, bitter and hostile as it was, all of his life, so as awkward and as humiliated as she felt having his attention directed at her, she listened to him. 

"Did you wake up okay?" he asked her then, changing the subject, much too casually.

She wasn't a drinker, she'd confessed as much to him the night before, and he probably should have kept a better gauge on the amount of milk she consumed, but at the time he had other things on his mind. He'd been wondering all day, somewhat guiltily, at the pain she'd likely suffered when she woke in the morning.

If looks could kill Tormund would have been struck down at the glare he received from her in response to his question. Making her good and angry would warm her up quick too, he figured, laughing to himself quietly.

"Are you seriously asking me that question?!" She spat at him, her tone disbelieving, "You know full well how I woke up."

"Aye," he nodded, with a grin.

"You could have warned me," she seethed, her brilliant cobalt blue eyes boring into him as she pulled the shawl away from her face, granting him the view he'd been waiting for since they set out.

"Aye, I could've," he agreed quickly and jovially, "But I was...pre-occupied."

She tore her eyes away from him, mortified. 

"Please don't," she whispered then, taking a deep and intentional breath before looking back at him, "Please don't mock me...about last night...about how I was. I apologize. I cannot apologize enough, but please...don't mock me."

Tormund brought his horse to a full stop and Brienne's had taken a few steps before she realized it. She stopped hers and turned them around. His expression was hard as stone and his hazel eyes looked pained. Brienne suddenly felt guilty, though she didn't know why. 

"I'm not mocking you, Brienne," he told her, his voice clear and flat, "I'm playing with you, teasing you a little, but I'm not mocking you. And there is nothing to apologize for, so don't."

She was taken aback by his firm words, so much so that she couldn’t formulate a reply. She just nodded at him, dumbstruck, before she turned her horse back around and continued forward. 

Within a few seconds he was back at her side. She stole another glance at him and she was met with gentle smile.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twofer Friday. 
> 
> I'll post the next bit later today. 
> 
> Wait for it.
> 
> Waaaaaaiiiiiitttt foooorrrr iiiiiitttt...
> 
> (I own nothing.)

Brienne didn't know what to expect as they approached the wildling camp. Tormund was the free folk's leader in her eyes, and the initial plan was for him to make this visit with the new northern king, so she figured there would be some sort of reception; some sort of...honorable welcome. 

The people meandering about the forest near the camp hardly looked up at them, however. The laughter of a large group children bundled in furs, ducking and weaving through the trees in a thrilling game of tag, filled the air. The game's participants paid them no mind.

As they neared the mass of tents Tormund dismounted his horse, patting it on its haunches in thanks for its service before turning to offer Brienne a hand off of her mare. She eyed his hand suspiciously for a moment, but she took it and let him help her down. She didn't need his help, but they were amongst his people and on his turf, so she would be polite. She thanked all seven gods that they both wore gloves in that moment because the touch of his naked hand on hers would have overwhelmed her. 

He gave her a grin as her feet touched the ground and she faced him, their bodies just a few inches away from each other. She was taller than him by a bit, but he was so broad and wide and big, so grand in his demeanor, that he made her feel almost small when he was close to her. She was absolutely unaccustomed to feeling as such. 

Tormund's hand reached up and he squeezed her shoulder, a gentle, friendly, casual gesture, but one that illicited a jerk in her nonetheless. He didn't seem to take offense. 

"C'mon then," he told her quietly as he turned towards the camp, urging his stallion into a slow walk by its reins. 

She gave him a quick nod and followed his lead. She looked up and at the camp. A few women bustled about from tent to tent, barking orders at their men and at their children about this chore or that which still needed doing for the day. A massive bonfire was lit and roaring at the center of the southern end of the camp, where they entered. Around it about a dozen massive bearded men sat, donning heavy furs and worn expressions. They smoked some herb rolled into some leaf, which emitted a smell unfamiliar to Brienne. They drank ale and they talked. 

One man barked back at his wife to bugger off, and she hollered back that her cunt would bugger off when he wanted to keep warm in the night if he didn't get up and help her situate something in their tent. Brienne blushed and bowed her head a little. The men sitting around him laughed loudly as he sprang up and made his way towards his spouse. She gave him a warm smirk of triumph and a kiss on his cheek.

Tormund watched Brienne watch his people, his eyes shining as he took her in. He reached for her her hand after a moment, catching her completely off guard. She her body jumped and she shot her eyes over to him, but upon seeing his face she found she could not will herself to pull her hand away. She let him hold it for a moment, and he gave her fingers a little squeeze of reassurance. 

A young man stomped towards them then and Brienne quickly pulled her hand towards her own body. The boy's face was so soft and his eyes were wide and round, but he towered over Brienne by several inches and he weighed at least three hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He had thick, curly jet black hair, and the start of his own black beard peppering his jaw. His skin was alabaster white and his eyes were the blackest eyes Brienne had ever seen. 

"Unca!" he beamed over at Tormund before the older man pulled him into an embrace. 

"Hurrn, how are you lad?" Tormund ask him, slapping the boy's back hard as they pulled away from each other.

"Bagged a bear yesterday," the boy answered him with bright eyes and a proud smile, "Big one too. We'll be eatin' off it for the week."

"Good, good," Tormund nodded, handing the reins of his horse over to the boy, "Can you see to these mounts, boy? Set our packs in my tent. And where's your brother?"

Brienne started to say something about seeing to her own things...specifically her own tent, but Hurrn seemed completely uninterested in anything she might have to say, entirely focused on his conversation with his 'Unca'. He grabbed her mare's reins and stepped away, calm and confident handling the large beasts. The horses appeared completely unafraid and actually quite content to be led by him. 

"He's off chasing some girl at the other end of camp," Hurrn answered, chuckling, "She's got him bewitched."

"Probably didn't take much," Tormund laughed, "You go get him and come find me when the horses are settled, eh? I'll be here a bit."

"I will, Unca," Hurrn smiled back at him before turning away from them.

Brienne watched as Tormund gave the boy a quick wave before he turned back to the activity within the camp. He took a deep breath and he smiled wide. He was clearly happy to be among his people. 

"What did he call you?" Brienne muttered over to him, leaning in a little so as not to be overheard by others, "Uncle?"

"Aye," Tormund affirmed, nodding and meeting her eyes, "That's my good sister's boy, the littlest."

"The littlest?" Brienne breathed, her eyes widening, "He huge! How old is he?"

"Seventeen," Tormund answered her, chuckling, "Lotta giant's blood in the father."

Brienne mouthed a silent 'Oh'. 

"Found him and his brother after Hardhome," Tormund whispered as he started walking forward, seemingly with a destination in mind, "They'd left the family to join the fight, to join me and Mance."

"Their family..." Brienne murmured back at him, frowning a little as she put some pieces together in her mind, "Where your daughters were?"

"Aye," Tormund told her nodding again, "Where my daughters were."

He was quiet after he said it and Brienne didn't push him to talk more. She just followed him past tent after tent, after precariously built wooden structure, after tent. Children scurried around them, and men and women alike gave Tormund small nods as he walked by them, or quiet smiles of acknowledgement. She noticed that some eyed her, critically, but they said nothing and did nothing towards her. 

They reached a large canopy at the center of the camp after a few minutes of sludging through mud and straw. A few women stood within and they were tending to cauldrons over coals, stirring thick stews for the night's supper, while a few men were portioning out bread just off to the side. The two men Brienne recognized from the great hall the previous morning stood huddled with a group of three others, over a small fire right in the middle of the space. 

Tormund walked right up to them. When the roundest and biggest of the group saw him approaching he turned and pulled Tormund into a fierce bear hug. The man had a long thick gray beard, and his face was covered in deep scars. The other men clapped his back and muttered coarse greetings over to him for a few moments before they took notice of Brienne standing behind him. 

"The little lady's sword?" The fat man asked then, eyeing Brienne up and down, but there was not an ouce of cruelty or disdain in his stare, just surprise and friendliness, "I thought you were bringing your crow, Tormund."

"Plan changed. Snow's little brother turned up in the night near dead. He's been missing a long time," Tormund informed them.

"Damn," the man replied, somberly.

"He sent Brienne instead. Trusts her. I do too," Tormund nodded over to her then. 

Brienne waited for any sign of disappointment or disapproval from this group of hard and hearty men, but there was none. If they had a problem with her sex, or with her role in coming to them, not one of them let it show. It seemed entirely normal to them that a woman would have a king's trust as she did, and that she would present herself to them as an equal, her head held high. 

The fat man reached an arm out to her then, to shake it in welcome, and she took it.

"Hahl of Witchpeak," he told her, his voice deep and gruff, "This here's Gorrum, my tribesman. That ugly fucking Hornfoot is Tando..."

"Eh, fuck off," Tando spat back at him, smirking.

"I'll fuck off right to your wife, you keep that up, y'ugly fuck!" Hahl laughed back at him.

"Any of my wives would cut your fat cock off and feed it to ya!" Tando boomed. 

Brienne's eyes flitted back as forth as they bantered, her cheeks growing red at their utter impropriety, but the ends of her mouth curving upward at their hilarity and obvious comradery. 

Tormund cleared his throat, but his smile was broad as ever. 

"Oh," Hahl spat, still laughing, "Right. And that's Gruendel."

"Um...thank you...gentlemen," Brienne muttered, and they all roared in laughter in response,  Tormund included. 

"Don't think I've even been called a gentle anything," Tando hollered through his laughter.

"We're just men here, darling," Hahl told her with a bright smile, settling himself, "Free men, and free women. Free boys and free girls. And we're all hardened from the wild and the cold. Not one gentle fuck among us, I assure you."

Brienne returned his smile with a small one of her own and she nodded politely, saying nothing else. She wasn't bothered by them, not in the slightest, but she was just reminded that she knew nearly nothing about their way of life. She didn't want to insult or confuse any of them, much less provide them with any more entertainment at her expense. 

Tormund stepped in front of her, blocking her from their view just a little. He quickly and slyly reached a hand back towards her, grabbing hers for just a second and giving it another little reassuring squeeze. She returned it instinctively, letting him know that she was okay, and in the next second his hand was gone and she found that she missed it. 

She didn't have the time to process that fact in the moment, so she instead she took a deep and quiet breath to collect herself, and she stepped forward and into the conversation that he had just initiated with the other men. The fire felt like heaven. She listened.

They talked of food, furs, and firewood. They talked of the people they'd lost in the last few days; one old woman who'd finally succumbed to an illness in her lungs, after weeks of fighting it, and a newborn babe born too early and not strong enough. 

The bodies had been burned right away. 

The baby would never have a name.

They talked of the incoming blizzard, Tormund informed them that Winterfell's maester suspected it would hit within the next few days, and the men all grumbled in agreement. They knew this weather, they knew how to anticipate it and how to survive it, which they all tried to remind Tormund. He, however, insisted that they tell him if there was anything that he could do, or any assistance that he could bring back from Winterfell and courtesy of Jon Snow. 

"Lad, we won't be taking no southron charity from your kind king crow. You know this," Hahl told him, and Tormund shook his head and scowled.

"It's not charity," Tormund growled, "We lost how many of our men and women to get that boy and his sister back home? I don't regret it. They died good deaths and he is a good man. He'll be good to his people, but we earned any help he's offerin' us."

The men bowed their head at the thought of the wildlings lost, brutally slaughtered by Ramsay Bolton's men. Gruendel and Tando nodded. 

"Now tell me what we need here," Tormund commanded. 

They had food, they had furs, and they had firewood enough. The forest sought to that much for them, and every person in the camp was resourceful in some way. They could each and everyone of them make use of the landscape surrounding them. What they needed were walls. Or at least the implements to create walls that could shield them better than the canvass and the pelts of their tents from the oncoming storm. 

They had already set the younger and stronger men of the camp to building, but wood that had been cut and readied, or even bricks and stone, any of that would help them. Most of the people could wait out a blizzard from within their tents, but some of the older and the younger of the free folk would do better behind a stronger barrier. Their food stores would fare better as well. 

Tormund listened intently as they made and justified their modest request. Brienne did as well, but all the while she was watching him. His hazel eyes were narrowed and his mind was hard at work as he considered the best and quickest way to get them what they needed. 

Brienne found in that moment that she quite admired his resolve and his obvious dedication to them, and even more so the place that it came from. 

She hadn't really understood until now. 

He didn't rule them. He served them; his people. A whole fractured nation of wild people widdled down to nearly nothing by horrors that had haunted them for generations beyond the wall; horrors that still came for them. He served them for no other reason than his love for them; for their way of being and living. 

No one kneeled to him. He was respected, trusted, and he was appreciated for all he'd given and would give for them, but he expected nothing more. They had all given, and would they give more before they ever found peace.

They owed him everything...and nothing. 

He owed them everything and nothing in turn. 

It was unlike anything Brienne had ever experienced. Not one of these men cared about politics, or gold. They cared about food, furs and firewood. They cared about building structures so that the most vulnerable among them didn't freeze to death. They gave not two shits about the wars of however many southern kings and queens. 

They respected compassion, and ferocity. 

The respected Jon Snow. 

But they would never kneel to him. 

Tormund would never kneel to him, but he would gladly die at his side, and they would all gladly die at Tormund's. 

Brienne realized then what the man beside her meant in all that had happened and all that would happen still, and she wondered if his name would be remembered, as the names of kings and queens who sent men off to die always were. 

And as much as it mattered to her in that moment that somehow he be remembered, she knew it did not matter to him at all. 

She felt strongly compelled to touch his face then, to run the pads of her fingers through his firey beard, and the pad of her thumb over his bottom lip, just to show him sweetness.

He was handsome. 

She imagined his flesh would feel so warm in her hand. 

She tore her eyes away from him and she realized that she'd lost track of the conversation. They had moved on from talking about building, to talking about people again. 

"Sent my boy off with a group of good men and some horses to collect them this mornin'," Gorrum said the and Tormund nodded, "Should be back soon."

"How many?" Tormund asked. 

"Least two dozen," Gorrum told him, "They all scaled the wall, the girl said they lost at least a dozen trying, but some made it. They sent her off one way and her brother off another to find us. She's gone to look for him."

"Right," Tormund muttered then, sighing deeply, "We'll stay long enough to meet them, see if there's anything they need, 'fore we head back."

Brienne nodded in agreement, but Hahl spoke up then. 

"You'll stay long enough to get a good hot meal in ya, and plenty of drink, both of ya," he started, glancing over at Brienne, his tone inviting no argument, "And then if there's no snow falling we'll let you go back to your crow. Otherwise you wait 'til sun up, you hear me?"

Tormund grinned at him as he slapped the older man's shoulder, but he didn't argue. Brienne didn't either. She was eager to get back to Sansa, and she wondered and worried about Bran, but Hahl was right and they would be better off traveling in the daylight if the weather turned bad. That possibility  seemed more and more probable as the hours ticked on by. 

Tormund asked the men to come get him from his tent when the newcomers arrived and they assured him that someone would. He turned then and made his way out of the cover of the canopy and back towards the southern end of the camp, Brienne right behind him, excusing herself with a little bow. 

The group of men grinned at her and two of them chuckled quietly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiit for it...
> 
> (My assets are unchanged from the morning update.)

Brienne caught up with Tormund quickly. 

"Tormund, if we do have to stay...I...well, I brought my own tent, if you just tell me where to pit..." she started, but Tormund interrupted her. 

"You'll stay in mine," he told her evenly. 

"I...that wouldn't be...proper," she countered then, to which he just laughed. He stopped walking and turned to face her. 

"You're my guest. You'll stay in my tent. I won't bite," he began, his eyes twinkling at her.

She was about to protest, frowning severly, but he raised his hand to silence her and continued before she could get a word out.

"Other men in this camp, they might wanna try. Been watching some size you up, and if you're alone they'll try for ya," he told her then, growing serious, his eyes suddenly cold as death. 

"To rape me?" Brienne asked him then, slowly starting to understand. 

"No lass, to steal ya," Tormund corrected her.

"To steal me?" she asked then, trying for clarity. 

"Aye," Tormund nodded. 

"What...does...that...mean?" she muttered over at him, instantly defensive and enraged.

He inched towards her and leaned in, his lips close enough to trap her ear lobe and his breath tickling her neck.

"You're a prize catch, woman," Tormund whispered, "Pay attention to what's happening around ya...to how the men are eyeing ya. My nephew couldn't even look at you."

"I..." Brienne tried to reply, but nothing came out.

"You stay in my tent, because you're my guest, and no one will bother ya. No one will think anything of it...they'd hear it if there was something to think about," Tormund told her and she glowered at his subtext, "You stay alone and you'll be fighting off a man or three who're gonna want to make a wife outta you."

"A...wife?" Brienne choked out. 

"Aye," Tormund told her, much too casually for her liking, a grin spreading across his lips. 

"You can't be serious?" Brienne hissed. 

"Walk back with me...pay attention to the men, hells, the women too...and then you tell me I'm not serious," he told her as he turned on his heel and started back towards his initial destination, his tent. 

Brienne stood there frozen for a moment, watching him walk away, before she forced her feet to take a few slow steps to follow him. On her way she paid attention, and what she saw made her pick up her pace to catch up to him. 

"Tormund?" she hissed then, grabbing at his elbow to stop him.

He turned around to face her, and the intensity in his gaze nearly knocked her off her feet. She gulped. 

"You...won't try to...steal me?" she forced out a whisper, dropping her eyes down to the ground. 

"No, Brienne, I won't," he answered her gently, ducking down a little to try and see her eyes as he spoke. 

"Why?" she asked him then, very quietly. 

"I've seen you fight," he told her then honestly, "I'd die trying."

Brienne nodded. 

"You would," she told him, calmly, finally meeting his eyes with her own. 

"I'd much rather live and take what's freely given," Tormund finished, "It's our way, stealin' is...but it's not our only way."

She dropped her eyes to her feet again. 

"You'll stay with me then...if we stay?" he asked her, and she just nodded quickly, "Right. I need a drink."

He stepped a few feet away from her and he ducked into a small tent. It looked plain like all the others from the outside. There was no ornamentation, no indication that its occupant was any different from any of the people there; that he was one of the most trusted advisors and friends of the northern king, and the leader, at least in the eyes of the rest of the world, of the people from beyond the wall. 

Brienne inhaled a deep, intentional breath, looking towards the tent flap and unsure of how to proceed. She would have to go in, obviously. Her mind told her as much, but her body wasn't budging. 

A man walked up to her then. He was shorter than her by a head, round at his midsection and he had broad shoulders, but his face was gaunt, bony. He had black stripes etched into his cheeks, three on either side, perfectly symmetrical. He had wispy mousy brown hair, and a thin brown beard covering his jaw. 

"Oi, what are you called, woman?" he growled, his mud colored eyes leering at her, and his tongue wetting his lips sloppily. 

"I..." Brienne started, but she really just couldn't bring herself to engage with him. 

She might inadvertently encourage him, and she definitely couldn't have that. She groaned as she pushed her way past him and into Tormund's tent. 

"Giantsbane?!" the man hollered into the tent, but he didn't follow her. 

"Who's askin'?!" Tormund hollered back, plopping down on his bed roll, having already shed one layer of furs. 

"It's Blounth! Who's the woman?" the man, Blounth, called back. 

"She's with me," Tormund growled, an edge in his voice that sounded like a homicidal promise, "You'll leave her be if you know what's good for you."

"Alright, alright, ya moose cunt," Blounth muttered, a defeated shrug coming through in his tone. 

Brienne heard him step away then and she buried her face in her hands, utterly humiliated. 

"Told ya," Tormund chuckled, "Blounth's a shit fighter, but you'd give him fighting sons. You're a prize. He's got a big mouth, though. Soon enough no one will be buggin' ya."

"You...your people are so strange," Brienne whispered out loud, not even meaning to, and when she realized that she had she shot her eyes over to him in an apology. Tormund gave her a rough laugh. 

"Because we see that you're extraordinary?" he asked her bluntly and she looked up at him, frowning severly. 

"Yes, yes most definitely," she answered him, her torment written all over her face, "And...I'm not! I don't..."

"That's horseshit," Tormund said then, cutting her off, "You're the most extraordinary woman I've ever seen, and my dear dead wife was an extraordinary woman."

"You don't know what you're saying," Brienne argued, her shoulders slumping and a deep sigh escaping her. 

"I always know what I'm saying," Tormund bit back quickly before he smoother his tone, giving her a little wink, "When I'm sober, anyway. On that note, drink?"

He'd already poured himself a small cup of sour goat's milk from the stash in his tent. Brienne glared at him when the smell of it reached her nostrils. 

"No thank you," she grumbled.

"Suit yourself," he told her, shrugging dramatically before downing a shot of the drink.

He eyed her up and down. She looked positvely defeated and immensely confused. She still stood at the entrance of his tent, her head drooping and her shoulders slack. Her hand fidgeted with the hilt of her sword and her cheeks were blood red with embarrassment.

"Sit," Tormund told her after a moment and her eyes shot back over to his. He tilted his head towards a stool just a few feet away from where he was crouched down on his bed, "Get comfortable. We'll be here a bit."

Brienne nodded, moving towards the stool and sitting stiffly, her back straight, her ankles crossed, and her hands folded on her lap. She pulled her gloves off and her top layer of furs. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes and it pained the both of them, but neither knew what else to say to each other. Tormund was about to offer her another drink, knowing that he'd draw her ire, but deciding it'd be worth it to draw any sort of sound from her along with it. In that moment however the flaps of his tent rustled and they both turned towards the sound, Brienne moving her hand to her sword again instinctively. 

"UNCA!!!" a huge man yelled towards Tormund as he stepped into view.

Hurrn's brother, Brienne's realized quickly. He was taller, bigger, hairier and scarier than the younger man she'd seen earlier that afternoon. He smelled a little of the milk Tormund has just been nursing, and his black eyes shone with a nearly unchecked primitive violence. 

Tormund stood up off his bed and he hugged their visitor, pounding his fist on the man's back in a rough welcome. Hurrn followed his brother into the tent, shyer and quieter, but still so large. 

"Hourlan!" Tormund smiled at the two of them,"Your baby brother told me the two of ya snagged a bear. Ya fuck her before ya kill her?"

Brienne paled.

Hourlan's laughter boomed through the tent. 

"Nah. Was a he-bear," Hourlan answered him, "I let him have a go a Hurrn though, in thanks for his sacrifice."

"What?!" Hurrn spat out, shoving his brother, but laughing then too, "I did not get fucked by that bear, Unca!"

Tormund just laughed, deeply and loudly, until his abdominal muscles were tight and there were tears in his eyes. As he started to calm himself he raised a hand up to squeeze the younger boy's shoulder, choking out sputters of fading laughter. 

"I'm sure you didn't, Hurrn. I'm sure you wouldn't be walking straight yet if y'had," Tormund finished, and all three of them laughed at that. 

Brienne couldn't help but smile at the three of them then, and something about her doing so seemed to remind Tormund that she was there. He turned around to look at her and she rose up to her feet. 

"Brienne!" Tormund smiled over at her, "These are my nephews. This is Hurrn, from earlier. He's my good sister's youngest. This is Hourlan, her second born and her meanest, by far."

"Aye," Hourlan nodded proudly, grinning over at Brienne, before he turned to Tormund "What a woman, Unca! Hurrn told me you brought a woman back with you, but he didn't tell me..."

"Easy lad," Tormund stopped him before he could further embarrass Brienne, whose eyes shot wide open at the young man's words, "She's from far south and she's shy."

"I'm not...shy..." Brienne muttered then, blushing despite all of her effort not to, all of her focus on Tormund.

"Are you wed then, Unca?" Hourlan asked then, ignoring her. 

Brienne let out a shy little gasp, and all three men bellowed in laughter. Brienne chuckled then too, rolling her eyes at them. 

"She won't have me...not yet," Tormund grinned over at his nephews, and Brienne's expression grew serious, a little warning in her deep blue gaze.

"Well just take her!" Hourlan teased slapping Tormund's back.

Brienne gawked at him.

"No lad," Tormund shook his head then, finally getting a handle of his laughter, "This one's fierce as yer mother, fierce as your aunt was. Not a woman to be stolen. Not if I like my guts...or my balls."

Hurrn's eyes looked over at her, shining and full of sincere appreciation and admiration after what Tormund said. It was the first time the boy had looked at her directly.

"Ah!" his brother smirked, "The best kinda woman."

"Aye," Tormund nodded, turning his back to Brienne and letting her alone with her blush as he distracted the boys for a moment, drawing their attention away, "I hear you've got your own cock on a noose, boy."

Hourlan laughed at that. 

"Aye," he nodded over at his uncle, "She not as strong as this one. She's tall, but lean. Her mind is sharper'n anyone I ever met, though. She's good with medicine, a real healer. She's caught the last few babes born in camp."

"What's she called?" Tormund asked patting the younger man between his shoulder blades.

"Thanna," Hourlan answered him. 

"Sounds like a good woman," Tormund said. 

"She is," Hourlan nodded, "I can't seem to convince my baby brother to get his giant's cock wetted yet, though Unca. The girls are all sweet on him, but he's shy like your steel clad woman, I think."

"I'm not..." Hurrn interjected, frowning, a bright blush creeping into his cheeks, "I'm just...busy."

Brienne was glad to not be the only one blushing within the tent, and she instantly took a liking to the younger of the brothers. He reminded her of Pod...and giant Pod.

"You don't have to do shit you're not ready to do, boy," Tormund assured him, "Some folks gotta meet the right fit first."

"I think he might like men, Unca," Hourlan muttered then, gazing a his little brother, as if trying to get used to the idea.

"No shame in that," Tormund told him, "You like men, boy?"

"I...don't know what I like, Unca," Hurrn whispered, dropping his eyes to the ground, "So I keep to myself."

"You're a smart lad," Tormund said then reaching up to ruffle the boys black hair, "You'll figure it out. 'Til then you leave him be, Hourlan, ye hear me? You'll confuse him more'n he already is."

"Alright, alright," Hourlan chuckled, raising the palms of his hands up in surrender, "I don't think there's nothing wrong with it. Thanna has brother that way...she loves him a lot."

"There ain't," Tormund insisted. 

Brienne watched the exchange quietly, forcing her eyes anywhere but on Hurrn's red face, so as not to further embarrass him. She was amazed that they would talk openly about such things, especially in front of a stranger, and she was even more amazed at the instant and unfliching acceptance that Tormund offered the boy. 

She wanted to touch him again. 

It was becoming a more urgent need. 

She didn't know what to make of it.

"Did you hear about the group at the wall, Unca?" Hourlan asked then, changing the subject when he realized just how uncomfortable his little brother appeared.

"Aye," Tormund nodded, his voice gruff, "We're waiting on them, 'fore we go back."

"You won't stay the night?" Hurrn spoke up then. 

"We might if the weather goes bad, but things are hard for Snow right now. Needs people he can trust at his back," Tormund explained, "You know you can both come back with me, anytime you want."

"Aye," Hourlan muttered, "But we're happy here, and you need people you can trust stayin' here."

"Aye," Tormund agreed giving his nephew a small smile, "I do. And there's no one I trust more, lads."

They both smiled over at him.

"You'll stay for supper at least?" Hurrn asked then. 

"If I can't I'll come back in a couple and stay for a couple," Tormund promised the boy.

"Alright," Hurrn nodded, satisfied, but in the next second his expression grew sad, "Do you think our ma's with them? With the group at the wall?"

"I don't know boy, but you keep your expectations low," Tormund ordered, "If she is, then it's a happy surprise. If she ain't, then it's just another day, alright?

Hurrn nodded, relaxing his expression some. Hourlan slapped him on the shoulder and he moved them towards the exit. 

"I'm supposed to be finding some mirkroot for Thanna, and Hurrn's got a shift building," Hourlan told Tormund then, to which his uncle only nodded, "Find us 'fore you go."

"I will," Tormund promised them as they bent down to leave. 

He sighed before he turned around, a contented smile gracing his lips. When turned he found himself face to face with Brienne. He hadn't realized that she'd started stepping towards him, from behind, as the boys started to leave. 

He managed to come to a full and halting stop to keep from he crashing into her, but she inched towards him steadily, and in the next second her fingertips were brushing through the side of his beard, and then her bare hand was rested on his cheek.

"I...need to..." she started, but before she could finish her thought, his hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her body tightly against his. 

She'd come to him. He'd been waiting. He figured he'd be waiting longer, but he knew exactly what he would do when she finally did. 

He didn't hold back. 

He pressed his lips to hers. Brienne let out a breathy moan and her eyelids fluttered closed when he kissed her. Tormund took advantage of her parted mouth to slip his tongue between her lips. She gasped at the feel of it, but he felt her lips smile against his. He took that as an invitation nip as her thick bottom lip with his teeth, and then to go deeper.

Brienne wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him explore her mouth with his tongue and letting him fill her with his breath. She'd never kissed a man like this before. She'd allowed one of the cruel knights of the Rainbow Guard to steal a peck from her once, and she would always regret having done so, but she could not imagine ever regretting this. It felt too good.

Tormund broke away from her mouth to trail his hot tongue down her neck and she sighed, kissing his temple, his crown. He pulled away from her just a inch and he met her eyes with his. 

The need in his stare unnerved her. If she didn't stop now she would let him have her; she would let herself have him...and she wasn't ready for that. She was nowhere near ready for that. 

"I'm...I'm sorry, I...I have to stop," Brienne murmured, her voice quiet, but laced with thick desire, with want. 

He just smiled at her and he kissed her again, deeply, and she sighed into his mouth, her hands gripping at the furs on his chest, pulling him flush against her. 

"Don't be sorry," Tormund whispered into her ear when he pulled his mouth away from hers again, "We can stop."

"I don't want to...to stop," she whispered back to him, placing a small kiss on his cheekbone just under his left eye, and another on the flesh of his left cheek, and another at the corner of his mouth, "I have to."

"I understand," Tormund grumbled, nipping at her neck, the vibration of his voice shooting down her body and ending in a heavy pulsing throb between her legs. 

She crashed her mouth into his.

One more kiss, she told herself. 

She would give him that...for understanding. 

Then she would have to move away from him, lest she forfit too much. Tormund growled into her mouth and one of his hands moved up her armored back. He tangled his fingers in her short straw blonde hair. She gave him a little pant, relishing in the feel of his hand gripping at her head, pressing her mouth further into him until she was sure they'd mold into one body...one mouth, pleasuring itself. 

"Tormund," she moaned almost silently, as she pulled away.

He groaned, but he nodded, burying his face into the crook of her neck. She ran a hand through his hair, in a wholly ineffective attempt at settling the both of them. He trembled against her. 

"What changed?" he asked her, his voice raw and his face still pressed against her as he planted tiny kisses and licks at her jugular. 

"I don't know," Brienne murmured, "You were so...good...with them."

"They're good lads. The only family I have left," Tormund sighed, lifting his head up, his eyes sparkling at her and his face flushed. 

"You don't know that," Brienne said then, her hand reaching up to touch his face again, her thumb brushing over a thick eyebrow.

He turned his head, closing his eyes against her before kissing her palm, then the inside of her wrist, right at her pulse point. 

She sucked in a sharp breath. 

Maybe she didn't have to stop. 

Maybe they didn't, she told herself as she started to lean in towards him, her mouth desperately craving the feel of his lips, of his tongue and his breath on her and in her.

"I misjudged you...so completely," she murmured, her eyes filled with remorse, "I'm sorry."

"You didn't know..." he whispered back with a gentle smile on his lips, moving them towards her again. 

"GIANTSBANE!!!" a deep voice called from outside the tent, causing both of them to jump.

Brienne took a quick step back, away from Tormund, a hand shooting up to cover her mouth and her eyes ripping away from him. Tormund stepped in front of her a little, shielding her from view. 

Gorrum rushed into the tent then, panting as if he'd run there. 

His eyes were wide, shocked. 

"Tormund, you have to come," he insisted, with no further explanation, "Come quick."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me. 
> 
> I own nothing.

Bran's dark eyes shot open. 

He sucked in a strangled breath. 

"No..." he cried, waking Arya whose head was buried in her arms at the foot of the bed.  

Jon jerked his head around from across the room where he was quietly conversing with the maester and with Davos, who had just returned from Wintertown. 

"Bran?" Jon called out to him. 

Arya was on her feet in a flash, stepping forward and into her little brother's periphery. 

"Jon? Jon is that you," Bran asked, weakly trying to lift his head, his tired voice growing more panicked by the second, "Am I asleep...dreaming? Are you here?"

Jon rushed over to him, sitting at his left side while Arya sat opposite him, taking Bran's right hand into her own. 

"Try to settle him," Davos spoke then, still standing with the maester, who nodded in agreement. 

"It'll do no good for him to get worked up," Maester Quint said, "Talk to him."

"Bran...Bran, I'm here. You're home? You're safe," Jon whispered and Arya reached her free hand to touch Bran's cheek, tears streaming down her own. 

"Ayra?" Bran choked out, looking at her like he didn't quite see her...like he didn't know her at all.

"Yes, I'm here Bran," she whispered.

"I saw Nymeria," he told her then, a small sad smile forming on his lips. Arya just nodded, seeming not at all surprised,  "She's changed...but she saved us. Meera?! Jon! Where is she?!"

Bran's torso shot up off the bed and he tried to pull his body up to stand, forgetting in his distress that he couldn't. Jon and Arya both gripped at his shoulders, trying to keep him still. 

"Bran, shhhhh...please, she's here. She's safe," Jon told him, struggling a little with his brother in his arms. 

"No, no no, Jon," Bran coughed out quickly. He was exhausting himself, "None of us is safe. He knows where it is, Jon. The Horn!"

"The Horn...the Horn of Winter?" Jon muttered and Bran nodded. 

"Your friend, he's being hunted...men with scarred faces. They're getting close to him. He's on his way here. With the girl...with the baby," Bran continued. 

"Sam?" Jon asked, suddenly horrified.

"He has the horn...he's had it," Bran whispered urgently, "And now he knows."

"The Night's King?" Jon question. 

Bran's eyes grew wide. They were brimming with tears. He nodded. 

"Davos," Jon called to him, his eyes hardening and his voice cold, "Get men on the road. Now. Find Sam."

"Yes, your grace," Davos nodded stepping from the room quickly.

Jon winced at his words, but he didn't correct him.

There was no time to waste. 

"Arya," Bran turned to face his sister, no longer fighting them, but every functional muscle in his body was tense, and his face looked so scared, "Meera? Has she sent for her father? I need to see her."

"I'll go get her, just...please relax, Bran," Arya begged him, rising to her feet. 

"The kingslayer?" Bran asked then, stopping Arya in her tracks and drawing Jon's eyes to his, "The kingslayer's here?"

Jon and Arya just nodded, both of their eyes wide, and Arya's jaw falling a little slack. 

"Bring him too," Bran ordered, taking a deep breath and trying to collect himself before he passed out. 

Arya frowned a little, but she said nothing. She nodded and she left. 

The maester shuffled over to him and started checking his pulses...his pupils. Bran wanted to brush him off, to push him away, but Jon's hand squeezed his, urging him to settle and let the practitioner do his work. 

The boy took a few deep breaths, considering just how he should say what still needed saying; wondering if he would pass out before he got to, and willing his body and his mind to calm themselves, so as to avoid that. He turned to look at Jon, who was watching the maester.

Their father had lied to them, all of them. He did so for the absolute best reason imaginable. Bran understood that, better than anyone ever would, but it still hurt to know that he would not be calling Jon his brother much longer. 

Jon was the only brother he had left. 

A stray tear rolled down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. Jon turned to meet his eyes. 

"What is it? What's wrong? Are you hurting?" Jon muttered, looking up at the maester then, "Is he hurting?"

"Jon, stop," Bran said then, grabbing Jon's sleeve and forcing him to look back at him, "Tell me, did Meera send for her father? After we arrived?"

"Yes, Bran," Jon nodded, "She wrote a letter as soon as we got you up here. Maester Quint sent it off as soon as you were warm enough. She told him to come at once. Why?"

"He'll confirm it," Bran whispered to himself before glancing up at the maester, "Jon, I need to talk to you. Just you."

"Bran..." Jon started to argue, but Bran shook his head and stopped him. 

"Jon, please," he inisisted, "We don't have much time."

Jon hesitated, frowning and obviously confused, but he looked up at the maester after a moment and the older man just nodded, checking Bran's pulse once more before he moved towards the door, leaving them. Bran waited to speak until he could no longer hear the rattle of chains down the hall. 

"Littlefinger, is he hear? Does he have men in the castle," Bran asked then, and Jon could guess as to his point. 

"No, he returned to see to some business in the Eyrie," Jon assured him, "He promised to return soon. He left two thousand of his knights in the north until he does. They mostly keep to Wintertown, and to their own camp."

"You cannot trust him," Bran muttered.

"I never will," Jon told him, no question in his tone. 

"Jon, I..." Bran started, but he frowned and paused, still not knowing how to say what needed saying.

He took a deep breath, aggravating his sick lungs and prompting a cough from deep in his chest.

"I...I'm...well, Jon, there's something about me...something that's...different," Bran started before sighing, "Besides my being a cripple."

"Don't talk like that," Jon chastised him gently.

"It's what I am, Jon," Bran pressed, his expression cold, "But...well, I'm also something else. I have a...gift...or a curse. I haven’t decided yet."

"You're a warg?" Jon said then, encouraging his little brother to talk to him with what little he knew.

"Meera told you?" Bran asked, a little surprised. 

"She tried," Jon answered him with a small grin, "I met a man once. A wildling man. I learned about wargs. Sometimes I can...with Ghost."

"We are wargs, Jon," Bran finished for him, to which Jon nodded, "but I'm different still. I can see things...from a distance, but I can also...see the past."

Jon kept his expression even. He didn't want to upset his brother with any indication that he might not believe him, or that he might be uncomfortable with what he was being told. He'd lived, and died, through enough to know that anything was possible. 

"What did you see, Bran?" he asked his little brother quietly, taking one of Bran's hands into both of his, "Meera said you had a vision and that after...you started to fade away."

"I...Jon, I saw your birth," Bran whispered, weeping, "I saw your mother."

"My mother?" Jon choked out, his eyes growing huge, "You saw my mother?"

Bran nodded, gulping before continuing.

"And...my father," he muttered, "Jon...your mother, she was very very hurt. She was dying, she made him promise..."

"Father?" Jon interrupted him then, his own eyes growing wet, "She made him promise what?"

"Yes," Bran nodded, "Father. My father, but not your's. Your father was a different man, Jon."

Jon just stared at him, a million questions written on his face. 

"Lyanna was your mother," Bran told him, very gently. 

Jon jerked a little, his brow furrowing deeply. 

When he heard the name he automatically pictured a powerful little girl who lived in the present, and who was not yet old enough to have birthed a child. He pictured a powerful little girl who had named him her king and won him the full support of the north...then he remembered who that girl was named for. 

"Lyanna...Lyanna Stark," he breathed, his chest tightening painfully. 

"You're the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and...Rheagar. Rheagar Targaryen," Bran laid it out for him then, but Jon just shook his head. 

"But...no. Rheagar, he had another wife," he grumbled, running one hand through his black mane, while the other still gripped Bran's.

"She was killed. She and her children were both killed," Bran explained, "Your parents were married three days after that slaughter, and you were born three days after that. You weren't conceived in wedlock, but they married. You were legitimate."

"I..." Jon started, but then he wondered if, given the implications of what he was being told, the question he wanted to ask was silly. He asked it anyway, "How was I conceived?"

They were always told was that Rheagar was as mad as his father; that he'd kidnapped and brutalized Lyanna, and that in doing so he had inspired a rebellion against the crown and a battle for the Iron Throne. 

Jon needed to know if he was a child of rape. 

He stomach turned. 

He felt like he might vomit. 

"You were conceived in love," Bran told him, but there was no sweetness in his voice, "They loved each other. Obsessively. They loved each other enough to damn the rest of the world. Enough to start a war."

Jon shot up off the stool and he stomped to the other end of the room. He searched for any receptacle into which he could wretch and when he found a large copper bed pan, he promptly expelled what little food he'd eaten that day. 

"I'm sorry," Bran called out to him, his sympathetic and full of remorse, "You have to know."

Jon didn't turn back to look at him, but Bran saw him nod. He took a few deep breaths, forcing the bile that threatened to rise back down his throat. 

"We can't tell anyone else until Meera's father arrives. He was there...with father...when Lyanna was discovered. He'll confirm it," Bran explained, but still Jon said nothing, he just gave a terse little nod, "Jon, I'm sorry. You...you are meant to redeem them."

Jon sighed. He wiped the few tears that had fallen from his eyes and he turned back to look at his little brother...who wasn't his brother at all. 

"How? How will I redeem them?" Jon asked.

Arya stormed in then, and she looked ready to maim someone. Meera trailed in after her, clearly incredibly uncomfortable, and Jaime Lannister was at her heels. 

He was smiling brightly and chuckling. 

Until he saw Brandon Stark. 

"I swear I'll fucking kill him if he says one more word to me," Arya barked at Jon, her eyes wild in a murderous rage. 

"Arya," Jon snapped at her, jerking his head to where Jaime moving towards the edge of Bran's, his expression suddenly tortured. 

The room was silent for a few long moments, all attention turned to where an aging broken knight was kneeling before a sick and broken boy.

"I'm...I'm so sorry," Jaime whispered, bowing his head. 

Meera turned to look over at Arya and Jon, her eyes questioning, but Arya just shrugged, and Jon's face was blank save for the redness in his eyes. 

"I know you are," Bran said to him, unable in that moment to look at the man who had crippled him. 

Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

He exhaled forcefully. 

And then his eyes met Jaime's. 

"I know you're sorry, kingslayer," Bran said to him then, his voice rough and thick with emotion, "I've seen your sins. I saw one the day you pushed me from that window, and I've seen the others since."

Jon and Arya both reached for their swords when they heard Bran's words.

Jaime had crippled him...and they were just told.

"Don't," Bran order, turning to them, and Jon dropped his hand, but Arya's was fixed on Needle's hilt, "Arya, don't."

Bran glared at her and she glared right back at him. They held each other's gaze for several long moments before she relented, hooking her thumb into her belt and gritting her teeth in sheer frustration. Bran's eyes met Jaime's again. 

"Kingslayer..." he breathed, and Jamie sighed, a shamed scowl claiming his face upon hearing the name again, "I saw you kill Aerys."

"Then you know?" Jaime asked him, his eyes growing round in surprise and a little relief, "You know what would have happened, if I hadn't killed him, and yet you still call me by that name? Call me anything else. Sisterfucker...Breaker of Children. If you will name me for my sins, then please, call me anything but that."

"I do know," Bran nodded over at him, "I watched you kill him...and it was your most noble act. That's not why I call you kingslayer."

"Why then?" Jaime pressed, still frowning. 

"Because I've also seen your redemption. You owe me a debt," Bran stated and Jaime nodded after a moment's pause, "You...you're meant to slay another king. That's how you'll repay it. He's coming for me...for all of us...and...I need your help."

"What king?" Arya barked at them, not understanding her little brother's cryptic words, but Jon and Meera remained quiet. 

They knew who he spoke of. 

"The Night's King," Bran answered her, but he kept his eyes on Jaime's.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really incredibly hard to write.
> 
> Be warned, some gore, graphic imagery, angst ahead. 
> 
> Also I own nothing.

Gorrum's eyes held a fear Tormund never knew the man capable of, and he'd known Gorrum for some time. 

Tormund didn't turn back to instruct Brienne to follow him as he let the older man lead him out of the tent. He didn't have to and she didn't disappoint him when he listened for her heavy footsteps behind his as sloshed through the mud.

Gorrum led them to the northern end of the camp and on the way there people rushed past them; they rushed south. Mothers dragged children too big to carry along by their arms; fathers carried the smaller children and what supplies they could grab before they left. The younger free folk helped the elders hurry along.

They were fleeing. The wildlings were leaving their camp, and Tormund's heart suddenly filled with dread. 

As they neared the edge of the encampment the world around them grew more chaotic. The people were panicked. Tormund could hear Tando barking orders at them, to grab what food they could, to arm themselves, and to head for the 'king crow's castle'. 

"Tormund?" Brienne caught up to him, grabbing his forearm, hey eyes questioning.

He shook his head. 

"I don't know, lass," he told her, his face hard, but his own hazel eyes betraying his worry. 

As soon as the words left his mouth though, he saw. Brienne saw too. A shocked little gasp escaped her lips. 

There were horses at the break in the tents that opened to the forest. Six of them. They stood still on their legs, their tails swishing slowly behind them. Their bodies had been mutilated. Some were half skinned, others had deep gashes cutting through their thick muscle, or torn throats. They were covered in blood and battered flesh. Their eyes were a dull, dead, blueish gray, and focused on nothing in particular. No breath escaped their flared nostrils. 

Several ropes were tied to their stirrups, or wrapped around their midsections and extending back. The lines all connected to dozens of human ankles, feet, and knees. The undead beasts had dragged the bodies of the wildling newcomers who had scaled the wall, and possibly of the free folk who'd gone to collect them, back to the encampment. Blood seeped out into the snow around the corpses. What could be seen of their faces and exposed limbs was shredded from the rock and ice they had been hauled over.

The horses just stood there, as if waiting for something, or someone, but they didn't step foward. 

Tormund turned to Gorrum.

"Your boy?" Tormund asked him, and Gorrum's face grew pained for just a moment, but he straightened it quickly.

"Don't know." Gorrum croaked, "No one's got close enough to see...to see who's there. They're just fucking standing there. Just fucking standing there watching us run."

"Light arrows and bury 'em in them the dead fuckers eyes," Tormund growled towards Tando who was stepping towards him with two of his clansmen. 

They nodded, already armed. They wrapped and soaked the end of a few arrows before setting them aflame and setting them loose. As soon as the first hit its mark, the target burst into flames, its dead flesh seemingly highly flammable. The horse's legs buckled underneath it and its body dropped to the ground. 

"The rest'a them!" Gorrum bellowed and the men followed his command, loosing another round of arrows at the horses that still stood, and watching them fall to the ground, burning quickly alongside their fellows.  
   
"Let 'em burn. You...you..." Tormund spat back at the men who stood behind Tando, "Come with me."

The men hesitated. Tando slapped the younger of the two upside his head. 

"Get, boy!" he spat, before turning back towards the panic behind them.

Tormund gestured for the men to follow him and he took a step towards the fires and the bodies on the ground behind them, now freed from their binds. Tormund snatched Brienne's hand into his before she could move. 

"You wait here," Tormund grumbled at her and she shook her head, ready to argue, "Please just..."

"No," she whispered back at him, her eyes shining with resolve, "I will not. If they're out there...my sword...I can help."

Tormund grimaced, but he said nothing else. He nodded and turned back around, Brienne and the two young Hornfoot men falling in step behind him. They bypassed the fires and moved straight towards the human bodies. 

The Hornfoot men bent down over the first bundle of corpses and started pulling the bodies onto their backs, to see their faces; to try and make out any identifiable facial features through the mangled mess of their flesh. 

"Caito," the younger of the two muttered weakly after a moment, his hand gripping a dead man's furs.

"One of yours?" Tormund whispered, gripping the man's shoulder as he crouched down beside him.

The man gave him a quick nod.

"My cousin. Went off to fetch 'em this morning," the young man told him, "I'll have to find his mother. Dont recognize none a the rest."

Brienne stood sentry off the the side, letting the free folk tend to their own, but listening. Her eyes were narrowed and they peered out into the forest surrounding them. She had drawn her sword, in a silent dare for anyone or anything to test her.

Tormund glanced back at her before he moved toward the second pile of corpses and his heart skipped a beat upon seeing the look in her eyes. Her face betrayed no fear in that moment, just the stoicism of a warrior ready to kill and die, for him and for his people. She had a dangerous glint in her eyes.

He tore his eyes away from her as he approached the next group of bodies and he looked down at them. He grabbed at arms and furs to flip those over who's faces he couldn't see. There he found Gorrum's son, a boy just turned eighteen, big as his father and with the same sharp, wolflike structure to his face, but who was still an innocent in so many ways. He was always telling jokes to the little children and looking out for them. He always wanted to be use. He was the pride of his family and Gorrum's only child.

"Sorry lad," Tormund breathed as he pulled his hand over the boy's dead brown eyes and shut them.

"You," he turned back to the man he'd just spoken to, "What's yer name?"

"Fallon," the man answered him, pulling his tormented gaze away from his clansman's body and looking up at Tormund. He nodded towards the friend who stood next to him, "That's Roog."

"Fallon, go tell Gorrum to find his wife. She has a son to mourn in this lot," Tormund told him flatly, "Then go find your man's mother. Roog, help me with the rest. We'll see of there's any more we know 'fore we ready the pyres. The people who ain't fled yet can look through 'fore we burn 'em, but best prepare who we can." 

Both men nodded and Fallon hurried away, while Roog shuffled towards Tormund. The man was in his early thirties, old enough to have seen his share of horrors, but his face was pale and his sky blue eyes were wide in fear. He looped his long frizzy brown hair into a knot at the nape of his neck to keep it from falling in his face, and he kneeled next to Tormund at the third pile of corpses. 

They were mostly women, young and old, and one boy no more than eight years old. Upon seeing the child's brutalized face, Roog turned away from Tormund and he vomited off to his side. He took a deep breath, but the smell of his vomit and the sight before him inspired more gagging before he was able to collect himself. 

"How'd they...how could they get past the wall? It still stands...how?" the man muttered.

Tormund just shrugged, his eyes hard. 

"Dunno," he grumbled, "They had help."

He stood up without another word and he stepped towards the next pile, repeating the actions carried out with the first three, Roog following his lead. Two more of the group who'd departed the camp were among these, but no one else they recognized. 

The first body Tormund turned over in the next pile was that of a large woman with jet black hair and a mouth whose shape was too familiar. He fell to his knees and his hands started wiping clotted, drying blood from her face, pulling her hair away so that he could get a better look at her. So that he could be sure. 

Something about the change in his demeanor; the panicked jerk of his arms, the tension in his back and the quick movements of his hands; it drew Brienne's attention towards him. 

"No," Tormund whispered, freezing for a moment, his eyes welling with tears before he reached for another small body, bundled right next to the woman's, its shorter legs tied to the woman's at the knee. 

It was the body of a young girl, fifteen years old. She had bright red hair, matted and caked to her scalp with blood and mud. Her face would be pretty if it weren't for the bruising, and the chunks of raw flesh and exposed bone. 

She was covered in blood, as they all had been to this point, but her blood on Tormund's hands meant a different thing to him than all the rest; than any other ever had. 

Her blood was his. 

She was his girl. 

His firstborn girl. 

He pulled the her body towards him, wrapping her torso in his arms.

"NO!!!" he roared, his powerful voice cracking in a sob before he bellowed again, into the girl's furs, an indecipherable cry from deep within his chest

Brienne watched him, confused. She allowed herself two beats to try to figure out what was happening, before she swiftly stepped towards him. Roog met her eyes, his expression sympathetic, if a little bewildered 

She dropped to her knees at Tormund's side, her hand reaching for him instantly, and her fingers raking through his firey red hair. She looked at the limp body in his arms; a fire headed child...a girl. She watched Tormund's body quake in quiet sobs. 

And then she understood. 

"Oh gods, Tormund," she muttered, her face twisting in sorrow, as she inched closer to him, winding her arms around him from behind, her lips moving to whisper in his ear, "Tormund, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His shoulders shook in her arms as he rocked the girl's body in his. 

Brienne heard a scream then, coming from inside the camp. Gorrum had his arms around a wailing woman's waist and he was trying to hold her back, to keep her from the fires and the dead. 

Tears were streaming down his face, and the woman's face was warped in utter despair. She cried out, trying to push her husband away, slapping him, anything to get to her son, but Gorrum was far larger than her and his hold on her was strong. She wailed again and then she fainted. Gorrum hoisted her up in his arms and he carried her away. 

Brienne tightened her hold on Tormund. She felt his chest expand in her arms and one of his hands come around to grip her wrist. He was coming around. He was collecting himself. Brienne found herself hating the world as it was so much in that moment, for not allowing him more time to properly grieve his child. 

She turned back to the camp again. Hurrn and Hourlan came into view. They were both armed, Hourlan with a massive axe, and hurn with a broad sword. They stepped towards them. 

"Tormund...your nephews..." Brienne muttered to him, and he took another deep breath before lifting his head up.

As soon as Hourlan saw the state of his uncle he came to an abrupt stop, scowling deeply.

"Unca...?" he choked out, "Who...who is it?"

Tormund turned to him.

"It's Ursa," Tormund called out to him, his voice rough and raw, "And...your ma."

Both young men ran towards them, Hourlan dropping to his knees as soon as he saw his mother's face, and breaking down in violent sobs. Hurrn stopped and stood beside him, his face blank as he stared down at her. 

He set a large hand on his big brother's should. He'd never seen Hourlan break down like this, but he knew his brother to be a fiercely emotional, passionate man, dangerously so at times, so he wasn't exactly surprised. Brienne watched Hurrn's stoic face until his first tear fell, rolling down his still cheek. 

Tormund squeezing her wrist lightly drew her attention back to him and she loosened her hold on his body. He turned back towards her meeting her eyes. They were such a deep dark blue and full of intense concern for him. He could see that she didn't know what to say to him, or how to help him, and he didn't know how to guide her. 

All he knew in that moment was pain. 

"I...I'm alright," he muttered gruffly, gently setting his daughter's body back on the ground before rising to his feet. He turned to Roog, "We gotta set to making the pyres. Get Tando on it, and get some men out here to help bring the bodies in."

Roog nodded and he stood, glancing over the bodies at his feet again before stepping towards the camp. 

"Hurrn?" Tormund whispered, looking to the boy then. 

"I'm alright, Unca," Hurrn answered him quietly, wiping the tears from his face with the back of one hand, while squeezing his brother's shoulder with the other. 

Hourlan's sobs had grown softer. He took in a harsh breath before looking up at Tormund as well. His hands still gripped his mother's furs. 

"You lads take the time you need," Tormund told them, "Bring 'em both to camp when you're ready. We'll burn 'em separate collect a bit of ash. I'll look over the rest."

"Munda's not with them?" Hourlan choked out, wiping his tears away and forcing another deep breath into his lungs, "Our brothers...? The little ones...?"

"I'll look over the rest," Tormund stated, stepping away from them and towards the last group of human bodies, his voice as blank as his expression.


End file.
